


Distractions from Himself

by brokenlittleboy



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Barebacking, Bottom Sam, Coming Untouched, Curtain Fic, Hurt Sam Winchester, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Protective Dean Winchester, Supernatural and J2 Big Bang Challenge 2015, Top Dean
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-26
Updated: 2015-06-26
Packaged: 2018-04-06 05:48:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 68,928
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4210287
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brokenlittleboy/pseuds/brokenlittleboy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam finds himself alone in the desert, with no memories and the devil on his shoulder. A chance meeting with a man who happens to be both his brother and hunting for him makes his life tailspin, and Dean is left to salvage the parts of him and make him whole so that his time in hell doesn't swallow him up. A post-s5 AU.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Distractions from Himself

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first bigbang, and the longest thing I've ever written by far. It's three time the length I was hoping for. I spent ten months writing, re-writing, and editing this. All in all, I'm damn proud of it and it's a child of mine. Hopefully I'll be able to add on some timestamps I wasn't able to fit in.

Link to the [art](http://quickreaver.livejournal.com/121162.html) | Link to[ Livejournal](http://excoyote.livejournal.com/3795.html)

 

DISTRACTIONS FROM HIMSELF.

BOOK ONE. THE MIGRANT.

-THE VOWELS .

He managed to convince himself he’s perfectly sane.

Well, not really, but repeating it in his head made him feel better about his situation.

It had started with pieces of him falling, others being ripped upward, a seemingly unending feeling of being torn apart, and the constant warning that something was wrong, that something was very, very, very wrong--

And then he was in the desert.

Not a metaphorical one, like a liminal space inside his mind-- instead, the waking world filled in very quickly, with cloudless blue skies and… sand.

His back ached as if he’d been pulling carts full of stones for years; a low, dull ache that had felt a part of him, a fatigue that had made itself at home in him ages ago. His face was pressed against the ground, hot sand burning his cheek. He blinked, beginning to come to his senses, having a tenuous grip on reality, and coughed up dust and ash and blood. He wheezed past a sandpaper throat. His arms were bony and his palms calloused, and he got onto his hands and knees, trembling minutely at the effort. Here he was, waking up in the desert with an empty mind, but it felt like he’d been here for years, that he’d been doing things during that time, running, fighting, and being someone. Words on a page.

But now, it was just blank. He kept thinking back to something, some previous moment, and finding nothing. It was an irritating, terrifying zero-result search about who he was. Drawing blanks where answers were expected.

Licking his lips, he slowly stood up, panting at the monumental effort that took. He wrapped his arms around his middle, frowning at the boniness and slimness of his foreign body. He began to tremble even harder. He felt as if he remembered being bigger, but anything concrete was annoyingly missing.

The desert was starting to piss him off more than worry him. He wanted a mirror, maybe some water, and a roof over his head. He wanted to stop feeling so hollow and drained. The endless rolling dunes of nothing (just like him) were leaving a bad taste in his mouth. He wanted answers. He wanted memories. He wanted something else, catching at the edge of his thoughts before skimming away, but he couldn’t quite place that, either. He gave up looking inward, and started trudging forward and outward in a random direction, hugging himself and frowning past his inherent pains and guilts, hoping he was in Arizona, because he knew Arizona somehow, knew civilization might be near and his life along with it.

_You won’t find your life there._

He froze, whipping around and getting dizzy. He blinked away the fuzzing greyness in his vision and stood stock-still, listening. There was no one around, but he had definitely heard something.

_I’m right here._

He swung around again, searching. On the periphery of his vision, always the periphery, a man wavered, half-mirage. Blonde, spiky hair and eyes that were entirely alive. He was in plaids and jeans, similarly dressed to how he had found himself just moments before, lying face down in the fucking desert.

More than that, he was familiar. A half-erased memory of someone he’d known.

“Who are you?” he asked aloud and winced, his voice rough and grating on his own ears. He swallowed, licked his lips again. He felt lightheaded and distant, but stubbornness kept him plowing on through his headache. He started moving forward, eyes flicking right and left and watching the weird man-desert-mirage thing keep pace just a step behind him.

_I’m your other half._

The statement was accompanied by the remains of a cocky grin, but there had been whispers of sincerity behind his tone. He found himself believing the man, or at least the sentiment he had. Maybe he just wanted to be able to believe something, to find something. He didn’t care. He watched him avidly out of the corner of his eye, watching the skin whisp and blow away from the mirage man like grains of sand falling endlessly in an hourglass.

“Who am I? Where are we?” he asked eagerly, hearing a truck rumble on tarmac somewhere to his left and changing direction accordingly. He coughed into his sleeve.

_Your name is Samuel. It means the name of God._

That felt right. He nodded shakily, teetering on his feet from what was probably dehydration, but kept moving. “And you? You are?”

The whatever-it-was paused.

_Your other half’s name is Dean._

The phrasing was a little off, but then again he was speaking to a hallucination or a ghost or something. He was in rough shape, speaking to half-formed specters, but it was comforting. And it felt honest, real. Another thing he remembered was his belief in the paranormal. His unshakeable conviction that there was more, somehow. He nodded. The name was solid, a backbone to the nothing, something he definitely remembered. He was building a skeleton of someone he knew from his memories. He smiled.

“Hey, Dean.”

Like he’d uttered the magic words, the mirage moved forward out of his periphery, and seemed to jigsaw together, like a puzzle. Blurry parts and black dots became skin, and eyes, and scars, sewing together and flickering, pieces sliding over and together to make logical arms and legs, and then he was there, and human, a breath of life walking in tandem with Sam.

He mouthed words, and even though he didn’t so much as whisper, Sam could still hear him.

_Hello, Sam._

“So, uh, where are we?” Sam repeated, stumbling when a truck blew by a few feet in front of him, blaring an angry horn and spurning dust to spread and billow through the air in slow motion. Sam spun, looking around for Dean, but he was gone. Sighing, Sam combed some of the dust out of his hair with his fingers and stepped onto the road, looking left and right down it. It was dirt, but driven down into a hard, reliable surface, and most importantly, a 100% surefire way to reach people. Lifeblood. He went right, loping at a slow, easy pace, aware of his strength leaching steadily out of him. His shoes were practically destroyed, the rubber bottoms separating from the leather and making a dull flop with every step he took.

He had no idea how long he’d been lying there, what he’d been doing before. For all he knew, he hadn’t eaten in three days. It certainly felt like it. The way he wheezed was not a good sign, either.

Another car blasted by him, and he ignored it, ears ringing. His thoughts began to run and collide with each other, making little sense, like the space between wakefulness and sleep. He knew he needed food and water and sleep soon or he’d just lay down and die, and getting out of the empty desert would become a complete waste.

Ahead was nothing. A road, thinning into a string and then nothing, and red dirt and sand on either side. The sky was bleached a pale blue, the sun burning near the horizon and stretching his shadow far out behind him. His spirits were already low, but now it felt as if they were being flattened by a steamroller and then thrown into a dumpster. The ridiculous heat wasn’t helping.

Shaking his head, he reached out an arm and stuck his blood-reddened thumb up, hoping the closer it came to rush hour the more drivers willing to pick up a hitchhiker would pass by.

He didn’t have to wait long. In a few minutes, a shipping truck drove past him, slowed, and pulled to the roadside, dust spitting out behind the worn tires. He jogged to meet up with it and pulled the passenger door open, breathing a quick thanks before climbing inside.

Nothing in the universe felt better than leaning back in the seat, no matter how motheaten it was. Like an automaton, he pulled his seatbelt on at the driver’s insisting requests, not really listening to him. He was reveling in the feeling of not walking, not aching quite as much. He closed his eyes and rasped out a couple of breaths before he realized the truck hadn’t moved. He looked over, blinking blearily.

The driver was an old guy, wrinkled and spotted, with a few stubborn strands of white hair clinging to his head. He was eying Sam up and down, but not in an uncomfortable way. Sam noticed the cross hanging from the rearview mirror out of the corner of his eye.

“You’re in a bad way, son,” the driver finally said, frowning. “Where you headed to?”

“The nearest city,” Sam responded, trying his damndest not to pant it out, and the man nodded brusquely before getting the truck in gear and pulling back out onto the road.

The rumbling, rolling feeling beneath him was ridiculously comforting and familiar. The low hum of the engine powering away in the heat brought back a strange mix of emotions, of safety and abandonment, of sleep and running for his fucking life. The constant battery of almost-memories was too much, and the last thing Sam remembered before passing out was watching the cross overhead, swinging back and forth with the motion of the vehicle, like a wave.

Consciousness crawled back to him. A lingering feeling of you should wake up you should wake up invaded his dreams. They weren’t quite dreams-- he assumed you needed memories to form dreams. It was all vague shapes and flashes and worries, before he finally creaked open his eyes and noticed the truck was stopped again.

He was at the wheel. The truck was in the parking lot of a bleached white motel with a blazing red sign on its roof that hurt to look at. In the passenger seat, Dean was smiling at him, eyes shining. “You’re meant to do such great things,” he whispered, as if he dared not speak any louder. The weird mix of affection and awe was beginning to weird Sam out, so he turned forward and reached to take the key out of the ignition.

His hands were covered in blood.

He jumped, heaving hoarsely in panic, his head hitting the headrest and his heart rate racketing skyward. Confusion ricocheted thoughts around inside his brain. “What? Wh-”

Dean put a hand around his wrist and squeezed. It was grounding, and Sam turned toward him. Something in Dean’s urgent gaze froze him. “Don’t worry,” Dean told him lowly. “You’ll begin to remember soon. It’s alright. It’ll be alright. You’re here for a reason.”

Sam breathed in and out slowly and nodded. He looked down again and saw his hands were clean, if only from blood. They were smudged with dirt and speckled with dust and scratches.

Dean put a hand on Sam’s shoulder and he felt even calmer. “The driver let you go on your way to salvation,” he said reassuringly, and Sam believed him.

Sam got them a motel room and went across the street to a McDonalds, eating until he was close to bursting on burgers and fries bought with pocket change, wiping his mouth hurriedly and ignoring the mild disgust from the lone patron left in the restaurant as he went back outside.

Back in the motel, Dean was lounging on one of the beds, watching a rerun of some nineties show on the antique-style television. Sam brushed past him, set on taking the hottest shower known to man, before he paused. When he’d walked past Dean, it’d felt as if Dean had just vanished. Like he only existed when Sam saw him. Sam turned back around. Dean was looking at him.

“You believe I’m real, right, Sammy?” Dean asked, quirking an eyebrow.

Looking down at him, Sam felt like an idiot. Things don’t just disappear when they’re out of sight. Only babies don’t have object permanence, he chided himself, feeling soothed by Dean’s presence. “Yeah, I do,” he told him, voice getting stronger with each word.

His conviction seemed to solidify Dean, to paint him in color. When he turned away again, Dean was still there, in his periphery. Not wavering in the slightest. Real. Shaking his head, Sam closed to the door of the bathroom and turned the water on, standing under it and humming as the burn made him feel a little more alive.

**  
**

THE CONSONANTS . (TEN DAYS LATER)

Sam was dead.

He was fucking dead, being perpetually ripped apart and raped by Lucifer and his angelic douche-brother in hell. He would never get out, and the torture would never end as long as Sam’s soul still existed.

Dean hated himself for praying that Sam might cease to exist sometime soon.

On drunken nights, he hated himself even more, a slow-burn of self-loathing when he wished Sam would stop existing for him, too, that he’d just forget his little brother altogether and go right on living, smiling and laughing and flipping fucking burgers on a grill next to Lisa and Ben.

He’d left them in a matter of weeks. A few weeks after that and he rarely thought about them, either. They’d stopped calling. He’d expected it. They saw him as a drunkard, a manically depressed man, nothing left to salvage. He was doing everyone a favor by grabbing the Impala and running, limiting his destructive habits to himself. He didn’t know where he was, some southwestern state, some town that didn’t matter to anyone except the locals, most of whom didn’t give a shit, either.

He wanted to forget. Desperately. He wanted to lose all memories, to have a white blank page behind him and endless possibilities ahead of him, a road leading to probably more death but maybe a little bit of happiness, too.

He’d already thrown in the towel and admitted to himself he had no happiness without Sam. Certainly none knowing Sam was screaming, burning or freezing or whatever Lucifer got off on in the darkest, deepest corner of hell. Sam had asked him to live, to not save him, to find Lisa and Ben. He’d failed Sam on one of three requests, and wasn’t far off from failing him even more.

Bobby called him every couple of nights once he found out Dean had run from Lisa. Dean didn’t answer. Bobby left voicemails. They started out angry, bitter curses telling Dean to go back, that he had something there, a chance. Dean didn’t want a fucking chance if it didn’t have Sam. He didn’t care.

They became pleading. Bobby would ask Dean to see him, to come by, for old time’s sake. To at least check in, so he knew Dean was alive. He begged Dean to take care of himself, for Sam.

Bobby’s last voicemail was more tears than requests or orders, something that managed to actually shake Dean, which led him to be where he was now. Some nameless bar, with one listless waitress and just enough alcohol. He’d started on beer but made quick progress to whiskey and various hard liquors. He didn’t get drunk anymore, but the numbness, the apathy, and the lack of Sam-related sick daydreams made up for that.

The only thing he felt when the waitress took away his glass and firmly shook her head was mild annoyance. Wavering on his feet, and seeing things grainy and faded as if he were in a desert sandstorm, Dean climbed back into the Impala and back to his motel. Time passed without his permission, without his remembrance.

Before he even realized he’d been moving, Dean was on the bed with a phone ringing at his ear.

“Dean? Is that you?” Bobby said immediately, sounding childishly hopeful. “You there, son?”

“I’m not going back to Lisa’s,” Dean slurred, by way of greeting. “It was horrible there, for them and me. It only made the nightmares and the guilt worse. So stop asking.”

There was a pause. He heard Bobby sigh and set something down. “What are you doing, Dean? Sitting alone, drunk in a motel room? You need to do something. To live a little.”

Dean swallowed. His hand was shaking, and he curled it into a fist. “I said stop asking.”

“You near Flagstaff, Arizona?” Bobby asked bluntly, changing gears apathetically, as suddenly as a clock ticking devoutly onward and then stopping.

Dean sat up, tried to blink his way to sobriety. “Yeah, actually. Couple of miles.”

“If you’ve got your wits about you, there’s a hunt. Ten people dead within twenty miles of each other in the past two weeks. Omens of some sort-- electrical problems, people falling ill. Not quite demonic, but definitely omens.”

“You want me to hunt?” Dean asked incredulously.

“If you’re done with the civilian life, then this is your life,” Bobby told him, tiredness seeping through his tone. “Figure it out or I’ll send someone down to figure you out.”

“I’ll do it,” Dean said immediately. “I need something to do. Maybe slicing a few throats could do me some good.”

Before Bobby could argue that cheerful point, Dean ended the call, tossing the phone onto the bed beside him and lying back. He rubbed his eyes, seeing constellations. A dull headache was beginning to take root right behind the bridge of his nose.

Closing his eyes, he blindly reached out for his phone and dialed the first number on speed dial. It went straight to voicemail. He knew it would-- he’d been the one to turn it off and cram it into the glovebox along with his collection of other phones of dead people.

_This is Sam. Leave a message._

“Hey. I know this is the second one in a week,” Dean croaked, rubbing a hand down his face. “But… I uh, it helps, you know? Talking to you. I miss you so much. I miss you so fucking much, I didn’t think it was possible to miss you this much. I mean, you’ve been a major pain in my ass, always thinking you had to keep on paying for shit you’d done. Well enough, okay? You’re forgiven. The whole fucking universe forgives you, little brother. You can stop now. You can come right out of hell and back here, because you’ve done enough. Please, I just-”

The phone cut him off, stating that the message was too long. Dean hung up. He redialed.

_This is Sam. Leave a message._

“I miss you,” Dean sighed, before hanging up again. Without getting up, he threw his phone across the room.

He fumbled for the remote on the nightstand and found it, turning the TV on and listening to Casablanca play shittily in the corner of the room. He couldn’t get himself to change the channel. Sam had loved this movie, unabashedly, forcing Dean to watch it multiple times until they both knew it line for line. Dean had hated it at first, and grew to love it. That didn’t stop him from making fun of Sam’s adoration for Humphrey Bogart.

“We’ll always have Paris,” Dean murmured in time with the movie, a slow smile growing across his face. He could hear Sam’s voice saying it with him, then his embarrassed laugh after.

Dean sat up and rubbed at his temples, rolling his neck to try to alleviate the headache. He opened his eyes and looked around at the room. The single bed, the single duffel at the foot of it. It was cramped in here, not because of size but because Sam’s stupid lumbering frame wasn’t leaning in the doorway or pacing or sprawled out across another bed, drooling on his pillow.

Dean hated himself for constantly thinking about it, for not being able to stow away the memories of Sam for five fucking minutes. He hated that his entire life was Sam, memories of Sam, Sam’s stupid quotes and books and hair and everything.

He hated that he really didn’t hate it at all.

He turned the TV off when Casablanca ended and the next movie wasn’t one of Sam’s favorites.

He curled on his side, fully-clothed and on top of the sheets, and willed himself to fall asleep, but not to dream. To be empty for awhile. To be dead. He wanted to join Sam, wanted to hold his stupid fucking hand as Lucifer ripped them to pieces together.

He fell asleep late into the night, curled around his cellphone as the automated voice told him to please hang up and try this number again.

**  
**

THE VOWELS, PART 2 . (NINE DAYS AGO)

You need to move the truck.

Sam startled awake, lurching into an upright position and rubbing at his eyes. “Mmh?” he asked tiredly, blinking through sleep-muddled eyes at the time on the clock by his nightstand. 6:42. A.M., presumably.

“You need to move the truck,” Dean repeated, lacing up his shoes on the other bed. “Cops’re gonna be looking for it.”

“Oh. Yeah,” Sam agreed tiredly, nodding his head before getting up. “We’ll do that.”

Dean smiled up at Sam. “Good,” he said, “you’re well on your way.”

Sam murmured in agreement, still two-parts sleep zombie, padding across the room to his duffel to pull out a fresh set of clothes.

When he came out of the bathroom minutes later, freshly shaven with his hair pasted wetly to his cheeks, Dean was leaning against the door, waiting. He looked up and down Sam, unabashedly, and nodded his approval. “That’ll do, for now,” he appraised, eyes narrowing and quirking a lopsided smile at Sam.

Sam felt… odd. He felt as if Dean’s eyes had just stripped him down, not to nakedness but past that, peeling back his skin and layers and layers of himself until he found the center. He felt open, secretless, known like a reader’s favorite book.

When Dean turned toward the door he relaxed back into his skin and let his mind blur and distort, mindlessly following him out the door and to the truck.

It was cloudy, and cobalt blue-- the sun had barely risen. It was already heating up, and Sam turned the AC on high when he climbed into the driver’s seat and turned the key in the ignition. Old, run-down buildings and churches spread out as far as the eye could see, the flat desert scrub hiding nothing. This part of Arizona felt dried up, squeezed of every last drop of civilization until only the desperate and the devout were left. Old church pamphlets dusted by like tumbleweeds and radio stations played sermons more than the top forty.

Dean tapped him on the shoulder and he moved his focus from the window to Dean.

“We kind of have to hurry,” Dean reminded him lightly, flashing a quick, strained smile before buckling himself in and turning the rear-view mirror for Sam.

“Why?” Sam asked, thinking back as far as his mind could go and finding no reason for urgency. The man had given him the truck, right? Hadn’t he? It was his. No one would be looking for it.

Dean looked angry for a second, mouth pulling into a pout and his eyebrows drawing down with it, but as soon as it had come it was gone. Then he only looked compassionate, placing a hand on Sam’s shoulder and fixing him with an open, imploring look. “The driver’s gone missing,” he said gently, lips turning down with compassion. “This truck is a lead.”

Sam’s head hurt. The drums in his head had been steadily increasing tempo since that morning-- he’d first assumed it was just because he hadn’t gotten much sleep; a dull headache thrumming behind his eyes after hours of half-remembered black and blue nightmares. Now he was being proven wrong in the worst way, blood pumping in his ears. “But… we didn’t do anything!” he protested weakly, raising his voice above the storm in his head, pinching the bridge of his nose and squeezing his eyes shut.

“I know,” Dean said, his voice somehow pushing past Sam’s fuzzed hearing and growing migraine. “but we can’t deal with the police right now. So we’re going to get rid of the truck, aren’t we, Sam?” his words rang clearly in Sam’s head, pointedly, like a church bell or a siren.

“Yeah, we are,” Sam agreed quietly, numbly, putting the truck into gear and pulling out of the parking lot.

They hit the highway just as the clouds began to clear and an orange beam of sunlight lit everything on fire, painting the asphalt in gold and causing Sam to squint.

“This really isn’t helping,” he groused, shaking his head and tightening his grip on the wheel until his knuckles turned from red to white. “I wish we’d brought some Aspirin or something.”

Dean remained silent in his seat, staring out the front window, eyes open wide as if he were unaffected by the morning glare.

Sam swallowed, staring at the radio for a moment but not reaching for it. He cleared his throat. “So, uh, where are we going to leave the truck?”

“There’s an old church two exits from here,” Dean said quietly, eyes vacant and distracted.

“Why would we…? Aghh, shit,” Sam trailed off as his head began pounding in earnest. He could barely focus on the road, eyes narrowed to near slits and hands moving the wheel jerkily to prevent the truck from careening right off the highway and into the dirt.

“Sam.” Dean said, just as clearly as before. Before Sam could do anything, Dean’s hands were on his jaw, lightly touching him and turning his head to the right.

Sam’s confusion and pain bled away slowly as he watched the sun filter through the crystal cross hanging from the mirror in a daze. His pupils dilated and he stared unblinkingly, hazel eyes lit up by the sun. His mouth fell open. A warmth filled him from his stomach outward, turning his skin alive and hot with each beat of his heart. His hands loosened their death grip on the steering wheel, and he felt almost at peace.

“You know what you have to do,” Dean’s voice rang through to him, even though Sam couldn’t see him. “you know what you were sent here for.”

Sam felt Dean’s hand find his back, a firm presence. “Do it, Sam,” Dean urged him, and Sam’s vision whited out, burned with the afterimage of the cross.

\--

Sam stepped out of the truck and onto the ground, barely hearing the gravel crunch underfoot. He didn’t hear Dean’s door slam, but then he was by Sam’s side, a warm, constant presence. Sam’s headache was gone, but nothing else was taking its place. He felt as if he were sleepwalking. His feet moved forward, but his mind was empty, save for the constant thought that he was here for a reason, that Dean was here for a reason, and they had something they needed to do.

Strengthened by his conviction, he shook his head, clearing away a few cobwebs, and opened the church door.

It groaned and dragged arthritically open, oak and probably more than twice his age. The sound echoed through the church, and all the patrons bent over in worship straightened and looked back at him wordlessly, pews creaking with movement.

Sam stared at the ground. The door had let in the sunrise, and his shadow stretched all the way down the aisle ahead of him, black and long and slender. The candles spread around the room shook and danced as a breeze blew in. He could feel Dean at his back, pushing him on.

“It’s okay,” Sam heard himself mutter, just loud enough for everyone to hear. “It’s okay, now that I’m here. I’m here for all of you.” His voice took on a melodic, songlike, and distant tone. He mused that he might sound crazy, even though he wasn’t.

He was on a mission.

Latin spilled off his tongue effortlessly, and he meandered down the aisle like a drunkard, ignoring the stares aimed his way. The door shut and locked behind him. The pastor asked him something, but Sam couldn’t hear, couldn’t respond.

Sam was sitting in a 1988 Chevy Cavalier, a little junker of a car with cigarette burns spattered across the dashboard like raindrops. He shifted, hearing candy wrappers crackle at the base of his back. He bent forward and looked around outside the front window. They were in a motel parking lot, but it wasn’t the same on as before-- this building was sand-dusted brick and two stories tall, packed with cars and silhouettes moving behind curtains.

“Dean?” he asked immediately, turning to find him sitting in the passenger seat.

“Hello, Sam,” he greeted, smiling warmly. He pulled out a small wooden cross from his pocket, strung across a leather cord. “I thought you might want to keep this on you.”

Languidly searching his head for answers, Sam let Dean pull the cord gracefully over his head and pull Sam’s hair out from under it. Dean’s hand went to his temple, smoothing back the hair there before disappearing again.

“How do you feel?” Dean whispered.

“Were we in a church?” Sam asked hesitantly.

“Yeah, and you saved those people,” Dean told him, and his hushed voice sounded like worship. “You saved them.”

Sam nodded, licking his lips. His mouth was dry. He smiled, eyes glassy, tilting his head. “We did, didn’t we?” he asked, his voice dreamy and low.

“No.” Dean’s voice was low and sure, steady like a river pouring past the stones. Sam recognized it from his past, his real past. Something behind all the blanks he drew. “You did, Sam. It had to be you.”

Dean got out of the car, and Sam did, too. Their doors slammed one after the other. He went around to the trunk and pulled out all their bags. Dean tossed him a room key, #6, and in they went, sliding in through the door side by side. Sam went to the furthest bed by instinct, letting Dean take the one by the door, dropping his things by the base of it.

Dean turned to him. “Does this feel familiar to you? Like you might be able to remember it?”

Sam nodded immediately. “Yeah, it does. We’ve been busy, so I haven’t really been thinking about my past but… yeah. I feel like I’ve been here before. With you, I think. Do you think I’ll remember? More of this?”

Dean didn’t share his hope. He looked furious. He took two strides and he was standing directly in front of Sam, shaking with anger.

“Dean, what are y-”

Dean cut him off by pushing him down onto the bed and crawling over him, pinning his wrists above his head. He leaned forward, using his nose to move Sam’s chin up. He bit at the place where Sam’s ear met his jaw, kissing and nibbling. Then he bit harder, drawing blood. Sam hissed.

“Is this familiar?” he growled lowly, practically seething. “Do you remember any of this, Sam?”

Sam jolted as if he’d been shocked. “Y-yeah,” he stuttered, feeling Dean’s lips against his throat as he swallowed. “I remember this, too. But… it’s different,” he sounded unsure, staying rigid under Dean’s touch.

“Good,” Dean growled before kissing him on the lips, shoving his mouth open and lapping into it, moving one of his hands away from Sam’s wrist to cup Sam’s jaw and position him just how he liked it.

Sam moaned against the kiss, opening his mouth and letting Dean’s tongue inside, keeping his unpinned arm up where Dean wanted it. Arousal was sliding down through him, slow and sure, just like everything else, and he could feel his cock start to fill with blood. He bucked against Dean and Dean growled again, possessive, moving his hand from Sam’s jaw for a split second to shove Sam’s hip back down into the mattress.

Dean kept kissing him, rocking his hips slowly down against Sam. He got angry every time Sam moved, so Sam kept himself still, biting off every moan and letting Dean direct the sloppy, wet kisses and movements. Dean reached between them and didn’t even bother unbuttoning Sam’s pants, instead grabbing and popping the button off completely with his fingers, before reaching down and taking Sam’s shaft in his hand. Sam’s dick immediately twitched at the touch, and it wasn’t long before precome was making Dean’s movements slick and wet.

Sam whined against Dean’s lips, and Dean rutted faster against him, more desperate, his hand jacking Sam off hard and fast. Before Sam knew it, he was arching upward, his vision greying as he came. Dean wasn’t long after him, and their lips separated with a wet pop.

Dean sat up, straddling Sam. He looked down at him, mouth hanging open and red as he panted. They were both doused in sweat and spunk, chests heaving.

“Remember that,” Dean ordered sharply before swinging off of Sam and into his own bed.

Dean turned off the light, effectively ending any conversation. He turned on his side, facing away from Sam. Sam turned the other way, thoughts buzzing wildly. That had been familiar. The hands at his wrists, holding him down… he shivered. Dean hadn’t cleaned them up. All of his memories seemed to be just out of his reach, lingering at the corner of his vision. His memories of motel rooms and highways were detached from the sex ones, different, but maybe it was just because he categorized them differently. Shrugging off a lingering bad feeling, he closed his eyes and his fingers went to the pendant around his neck, gripping it tightly until a red impression of a cross remained on his palm. He swallowed, staring into the darkness, resolving to ask Dean in the morning to tell him something of their past so he could patch together the discordant feelings he had.

**  
**

THE CONSONANTS, PART TWO . (NOW)

Dean heaved a sigh as he flipped through the newspaper. His other hand propped his head up, but didn’t stop his eyes from fluttering closed every few minutes.

There didn’t seem to be any pattern. People died, the weather went odd, no suspects, rinse, and repeat. He’d visited the church, but nothing stuck out. No sulfur, no symbols he could research, no nothing.

It didn’t help that he kept turning toward the motel’s kitchenette table, mouth opening to ask Sam for some help on the research before the words died on his lips and he remembered. He remembered everything. Every fucking miniscule detail from the cemetery, every tear dotting Sam’s eyes and his giant look of horror and apology, of love and adoration before he closed his eyes and fell backward, the earth swallowing him up before leaving no trace he’d been there. No marker saying “my little brother died and saved the fucking world”. No news story, no international worship, no recognition. The world turned shittily on around Dean, completely unaware, completely apathetic. He hated it. He hated everyone. He hated these stupid local deaths and he hated himself for not being able to focus for one fucking second. With Sam here, they’d find a clue in minutes, hop into the Impala, and save a few people. Without Sam, it turned out he was fucking useless.

A few times his hand went to his pocket, but never further. Half of him wanted to call Bobby for help, the other was too prideful and tired to bother.

At a loss for what else to do, Dean looked through databases and jotted down the address of the sister of one of the victims-- one of the churchgoers. She claimed to be a witness to the event, but the police had dubbed her unreliable. In their line of business, that meant she just might’ve seen the truth.

Shrugging on a button-down shirt, he headed out the door and to the Impala, turning on the radio as loud as it would go and shutting down any thoughts that might cause him to break down a little in front of an already traumatized woman.

\--

Dean had decided this woman was fucking batshit.

“He’s coming,” she whispered again, reverently, eyes wide open and both hands clutching a pocket-sized bible like a safety blanket. It still had the half-off sticker on it. “My sister… she saw him. I know it. I was at home, sitting just where you are and looking across the street at the church. This thin, slender man walked inside, and walked out a few minutes in. It was him. It was The Devil.”

“And… uh, what makes you believe that, Ms. Waterson?” Dean asked drily, flipping open a notepad and clicking his pen.

She shook her head. She was rocking slightly, back and forth. Her eyes were far away. “You wouldn’t understand. I felt it. He’s coming, and we’re all going to die.”

\--

Dean was back in the motel room, sitting on one of the beds with his head in his hands. His phone lay out in front of him, on speakerphone. “I think it’s some kind of an angel deal,” he repeated restlessly. “Maybe Cas isn’t doing so well at repairing heaven or something.”

“Have you tried praying for him?”

“At least a thousand fucking times over the past few months,” Dean spat out. “He just doesn’t answer.”

Bobby made a “hmm” noise in his throat. “Have you tried any other witnesses? Any other leads?”

Dean scrubbed a hand across his face. “There aren’t any others. Everyone around dies. Maybe I’ll just… I’ll look in Revelations for these weather omens, or these sacrifices, if that’s what they are.”

“I’ll keep reading over here,” Bobby offered.

“Thanks. I better get to work,” Dean said bluntly, reaching forward and hanging up before Bobby could switch speeds to Dean’s Personal Therapist.

Shaking his head, Dean hopped off the bed and grabbed his keys. He knew it had only been a day, a little less, but he felt he deserved a break, and the only good thing about this town was the number of bars it had; almost matching the number of churches.  

He parked the Impala next to a group of bikes and walked in, relaxing fractionally at the comfortable, piss-smelling environment of a rougher bar. He strode purposefully through the throngs of people, leaning against the bar and waving down the bartender.

The music was up, but when he mouthed “whiskey”, thankfully she understood and poured him a glass before swinging around to the far side of the room to serve some other patrons. Dean was more than happy to be left alone, nursing his drink and watching the news reports of the recent murders on the only television in the joint.

Watching the anchorwoman outline what he already knew about the grisly deaths only soured his mood and he turned, feeling the wood of the bar digging into his back as he watched a pool game in progress. One guy was obviously playing the other two, slurring just a little too theatrically as he lost another game and begged for a rematch. Taking pity on him but not his wallet, the two guys agreed, setting up the balls in the center of the table to start again.

Dean smiled into his glass as the ponytailed man shot straight and easy, winning the game within a matter of minutes and gathering up all his money. That had been Sam’s favorite technique, after he got over how much he hated playing guys like that. Sam’s fake-drunk was a thousand times better than this kid’s, though. Sam knew exactly how to move an arm, had the half-trip of one beer too many down to an art. When Sam agreed to playing the tables, they always brought home twice as much dough as when Dean played alone.

Not only that, but Sam was a fucking saint. Whenever a fight might’ve broken out over how thoroughly their opponents had been screwed over, Sam always found a way to placate them, always had a story with those god damn heart-opening eyes of his and then a quick way to slip out before they had a chance to throw any punches.

That’s how Sam had always been. He could be tearing the throat out of a bloodsucking monster, but he’d do it with a heart of gold and a quick wrist, the most selfless man Dean had ever known and the best hunter, too. Intelligent and compassionate, Sam had grown into a better man than Dean himself was, and Dean didn’t fucking know how. He’d taught Sam his very best, and Sam had done him one better. They’d fought, god knows they had, and Sam’s drive to do whatever he could for Dean and his cold fury had almost ended the world, but in the end, Sam had been the best person to grace this shithole of a planet. And he’d been tossed into hell like garbage, the waste of all the fucking angels and their heartless plans.

Dean mentally reprimanded himself for being such a predictable sap and downed the rest of his whiskey with an angry grimace. Like a ghost schooled in the ways of alcoholism, the bartender appeared, filling his glass back up with amber before disappearing. Dean downed that one in a single go and breathed out slowly, watching the bar for no reason other than he didn’t want to drive back to an empty motel room.

Dean heard a shout of rage from the pool tables and turned to look in time to see a slim, moppy-haired man slide out of the bar and out into the afternoon heat away from the fiasco he’d caused.

Dean dropped his glass and didn’t hear it shatter.

He was frozen, staring at the door, watching it close and rattle in its frame. He watched the man’s head disappear out of sight behind the glass, his mind still stuck, gears locked in place.

Before he could have any rational thoughts dampen his mood about how it was literally 100% impossible for Sam to be in this very bar at this very moment, Dean was shoving past hordes of people who were suddenly too loud, too raucous, too pressing.

It was hotter outside the bar, but emptier, and Dean revelled in the fresh-ish air, blinking rapidly and swinging his head side to side. He’d seen him. He’d fucking seen him, and he was gonna see this through, too, was either going to find his brother or find some other guy, and either kiss him and pretend or punch him in the face and pretend, whichever one kept Dean feeling more drunk.

The parking lot was too big and Dean was feeling walled in on all sides, stressed out and crazy and vibrating with whiskey tumbling through his body. He strode out to the center of it, turning in circle after circle after circle. He looked westward, toward the setting sun that glazed over everything, and saw an old Cavalier driving away from the bar. It turned behind a giant billboard that read “JESUS SAVES” and out of sight.

Dean was mobile in seconds, key going from his hand to the door to the ignition, tires squealing as he raced out of the parking lot and deeper into the desert.

**  
**

THE VOWELS, PART 3 . (FIFTEEN MINUTES AGO)

Sam sat dutifully on one of the rickety motel chairs. It had been moved in front of the dresser, above which an old mirror hung lopsidedly. The backing had been burnt and rotted off in some places, spotting the mirror with dark holes. It was covered in interlacing scratches, and Sam’s image was bent slightly, like half a funhouse mirror, and blurred by all the damage done to the mirror. Dean was standing behind him, meeting Sam’s eyes and pressing the cross necklace into his clavicle, his hand warm against Sam’s skin. He released the pressure there and moved his hands to Sam’s hair, sweeping it back from his shoulders and bunching it before tying it all into a ponytail.

All that alerted Sam that Dean had moved was a sudden soft breath of warm air against his neck. He started, watching Dean nuzzle his neck in the mirror. Dean’s eyes flicked up to his, lids lowered, and Sam shuddered. He held still. He didn’t know what this was about, couldn’t piece together anything of their past to make the next move or not. All of his choices were in Dean’s hands. His life, too. He was counting on Dean to fill the blanks, even though Dean was only a half-blank himself. There was something alluring about him, like a snake in a garden, something Sam remembered, a daze of headache inducing memories and emotions that Sam had learned to avoid.

It was easier just to listen to Dean.

“You know what you have to do, don’t you?” Dean murmured, his lips against Sam’s throat.

Still locking eyes with Dean, Sam hardly breathed. He nodded.

“You have to save the world, Sam. Purify it. It’s your mission. But to do that, you gotta kill the sinners. You have to recite the spells. You gotta do it for me. You do know that, don’t you?” he repeated.

“I…” Sam swallowed, his mouth dry. “I do. You’ve been getting me ready.”

“Do you trust me?”

“I do.”

Dean smirked, his eyes dark. “Then you may kiss bride,” he snarked, leaning over Sam and kissing him, hard. It was closed-mouth and angry, but Sam still wanted it, wanted more. Dean pulled away and took Sam’s hand, standing him up and leading him to the door.

“It isn’t all sacrifice, you know. It isn’t all bad things for the greater good.” Dean looked over his shoulder and flashed him a wry grin. “There’s perks.”

Sam followed Dean out the door and into the car, wordlessly sliding into the driver’s seat and taking the keys from Dean, the metal hot in his hand. “Where are we going?” he asked.

Dean looked over at him, his figure darkened by clouds passing over the sun overhead. “There’s a bar a ways up from here. We need some cash.”

“I haven’t been to a bar in a long time,” he said, smiling faintly. “It’ll be good to be back.”

Dean was staring at him oddly. “How did you know that?”

Sam put the car in reverse before answering. “What?”

Dean leaned over, his seatbelt pulling taut behind him. “How’d you know you haven’t been to a bar in awhile? Did you remember that?”

Sam raised his eyebrows. He hadn’t thought of that. The words had just slipped out easily. He did feel like it had been ages, but it also felt like ages since he’d last been alive at all, which was weird. He shook his head no, searching Dean’s eyes for answers.

Dean made a displeased sound in the back of his throat. He jerked forward, cupping the back of Sam’s neck and pushing their faces together, kissing Sam deep, plunging his tongue in. He pulled back with a wet sound just as Sam’s eyes fluttered shut. Always too soon. “Some things you shouldn’t remember,” he muttered, fiddling with the radio and only getting static distortion and broken pieces of songs. “it’s better that way.”

Dean’s kisses were like some kind of poison. After them, Sam felt lighter, like his blood had been replaced with helium. He wanted to go along with every word of Dean’s, wanted to follow after Dean. Then again, maybe they were ambrosia. He nodded eagerly. “You’re right,” he agreed, “it’s easier.”

Dean smiled, almost condescendingly, before leaning back in his seat. The sun visor in front of his seat was down, drawing a black line across his face and covering his eyes. “Turn left outside the motel,” he told Sam, “I’ll tell you when we’re near the bar. It’ll be on your left.”

Sam relaxed into his own seat. He hadn’t really felt want for anything before this moment, but right now he wanted to go to the bar with Dean and have a couple drinks. Powered by the prospect, he adjusted the rear-view mirror and drove away, his necklace solid against his chest.

The bar was easy to find with Dean’s instructions. They parked on the edge of the lot, away from the other cars. Dean kept one hand low on the small of Sam’s back as they walked, almost possessively, but Sam decided he liked it. He also liked the anonymity of the bar, liked that no one turned to look or stare at Dean or him as he walked in. He blended right in, moved ceaselessly through the throngs of moving people.

He looked back to ask Dean what he should do next, but found he’d lost sight of him. Puzzled, he turned back around and then looked behind him again, only to see Dean standing there cockily, his hands crammed in his pockets. “Ready to score us some cash, Sammy boy?” he asked, raising an eyebrow. “Remember how?”

Sam frowned, his brow furrowing. “I’m assuming you mean the pool tables… but besides that, it’s all just so blurry. I don’t know.”

“You were a natural,” Dean reminded him, voice smooth and relaxed as he led Sam over to the tables. “I’m sure with a few games you’ll be able to get the hang of it again. Just grab us a couple of G’s and we’ll be on our way, okay?”

Sam nodded, encouraged by Dean’s easy manner, and strode over to a couple of guys already in a game at a pool table.

Dean had been right. It was easy to act drunk or stupid or inexperienced, to pick on these guys and then swoop in and grab all their cash. It was less easy to deal with violent, angry fists, and soon he was sliding out of the door and into the open, Dean running out after him and yelling.

“What?” Sam asked, stopping and turning to face his brother. He laughed, breathing hard. “That was great! We should do this more often!”

“Absolutely not,” Dean growled immediately, grabbing Sam by the arm and practically dragging him back to their car. Sam’s hair was back down around his face-- when had he let it down? “We gotta get the fuck outta here. Someone’s on our trail.”

Sam stumbled to a stop and Dean whipped around, glaring daggers at him. Sam was almost cowed, but his curiosity overtook his fear, and he looked Dean in the eye. “Who’s after us? Why?”

Dean ran forward and kissed him hard and angry, pulling apart quickly and slapping him across the face. “The truck, dammit! It’s the trucker. We have to go. They’re not going to listen to reason.”

Sam jogged after Dean, his cheek burning red with the outline of Dean’s hand, getting in the driver’s seat and peeling away from the bar and out onto the highway.

Their old piece of shit started stalling around seventy miles per hour, but Dean was screaming at him to keep going, so he didn’t let up. Quickly checking in his rear-view mirror, he saw an old black Impala tailing them, quickly gaining speed.

About a billion things occurred to Sam at once, like a universe-given punch in the face.

The first thing was that, without a doubt, that was Dean’s car behind them. He recognized it. More than that, he fucking ached for it. He remembered without hesitation that he had grown up in that car, somehow. That car was the key to unlock a thousand memories. That car would be ten times more helpful than Dean, blunt and moody, would ever be. He felt bad for thinking that because Dean was saving him, Dean was helping him save the world. Dean loved him.

But the world could wait a couple minutes, right?

That brought him to the second thing. Why wasn’t Dean driving Dean’s car? Who was? He was determined to find out, determined to know his life and who he was before he got on with going to churches and saving people. He needed answers first, and desperately. His whole being was filled with a desire to remember and a pulse-racing fear at what he might find out.

Distantly, he realized Dean was screaming at him, was shaking him, was pressing his necklace into his skin. He couldn’t hear him. All he could see was black car glistening in the rear view mirror. He had the keen feeling he was driving away from an oasis instead of toward one. His head buzzed with questions.

Dean grabbed him again, and he snapped back into clarity, into loyalty, but the car was already heading into the opposite lane and into another car.

Sam’s body shook with momentum and a brief moment of weightlessness before his vision faded away and with it, the rest of his senses.

**  
**

THE CONSONANTS, PART 3 . (NOW)

Dean almost lost control of his own car as he watched the Cavalier barrel head-on into another car, the two meshing into one with a loud crash before spinning off together to the side of the road. The other car- a blue Ford somethingrather- Dean couldn’t be bothered to identify it, rolled a full 360 degrees before stopping. The Cavalier had practically been sandwiched in two and the front was compressed like an accordion being pressed together. Dean couldn’t see the driver because the glass was spiderwebbed with cracks and fissures. The hood was sending up a cloud of black smoke.

Dean pulled the Impala over and got out, running across the highway to the scene of the accident. Other cars were stopped, staring, and one woman had a phone pressed to her ear, most likely calling for an ambulance. Dean ignored them. He sprinted over to the Cavalier and was about to rip the driver’s door when it opened by itself, falling completely off as a bloodied hand pushed at it. Dean hung back, a call stuck in the back of his throat, watching.

The guy climbed out and stood up but almost immediately crumbled back down. He put a hand on top of the car to steady himself. His head was bowed, his hair covering his face, and Dean was in doubt for a moment. This kid, whoever he was, was too skinny and gaunt to be Sam. He wore a wooden cross around his throat, too, which was unlike Sam. It was spattered with blood.

“Are you okay?” Dean heard himself ask, finally finding his voice, and the man startled in response.

It was like a switch had been flipped.

“I’m fine,” the man growled, his voice low and guttural, almost a growl. He limped over to the Ford (it was an old Mustang, Dean finally noticed, feeling bad for the crumpled car) and opened the door, dragging out the clearly dead driver and climbing in himself. As Dean watched, rooted to the spot, he turned the car on and drove it away, just as an ambulance came in from the other direction.

Knowing there’d be too many questions asked that he didn’t even know the answer to, Dean looked both ways before stepping back into his car.

He sat there, just thinking, staring over at where the woman’s body was being put onto a stretcher. His hands rested lightly on the wheel, and the Impala was solid beneath him, but he didn’t really feel anything. His mind was too preoccupied. Again, he didn’t want to be alone. He couldn’t ask Sam. Empty passenger seat. Maybe for the rest of his life. He shook the thought away and shifted, pulling his phone out and dialing Bobby in seconds.

“What’s wrong?” Bobby asked immediately, the eternal optimist.

“I think…” Dean paused and swallowed when his voice shook. “I don’t know what’s going on. I need your advice.”

Bobby swore. “I can’t drive down,” he told Dean, “we have a bit of a situation up here. But I’ll fill ya in later. Tell me what’s going on.”

“The omens… they keep happening. I can’t find a lead. And then… this woman said she saw the devil and I didn’t believe her, but I think I just saw Sam. Walking out of a friggin fatal car crash. Do you think… I mean… could it be him? Could it be Lucifer?”

There was silence on the line for several moments.

“You said one of the mass-murders happened at a local church, right?” Bobby finally spoke up.

“Yeah.”

“Then I need you to go check out that church again. I might have something here.”

Dean pressed his head against the steering wheel and closed his eyes, breathing in and out. “But what about Sammy?”

“If I’m right about the church, then that kid might be in trouble. Go, boy,” Bobby urged him, and Dean hung up without a goodbye, pulling back onto the road and making his way to the church.

\--

The church was still closed to patrons, the number of which had conveniently decreased because of unfortunate occurrences, but with a flash of his old fed badge, he was in.

He still hadn’t gotten used to it.

With the bodies gone, it was a little more tolerable, but the brutality was obvious.

More than that, the grace and artistry.

The pews were all broken into small pieces and made to form a circle around the center of the church, which was now empty, save for a large stain of deep red, almost black. All the bodies had been piled in the center like firewood. The statue of Jesus hanging on the cross had 2 red nails hammered into it, where the priest had been hanging. His eyes had been burned out, leading Dean to think about angels.

The stained glass windows, previously shining shades of greens and blues and yellows, were all now red with blood, even though ones closest to the cavernously high ceiling. Not a drop spilled over to the walls-- it was perfectly painted on, like careful strokes by Michelangelo. It gave the room a darker light, a somber feeling. Dean held a police report in his hands that had the autopsies of all the victims. Last time he was here, that information wasn’t available yet. He was hoping it was the last puzzle piece to this draining charade and he’d be able to fix everything now. Fix Sam.

Dean flipped through the pages detailing the injures and scanned through the photos. Just as he got to the Priest’s page, his phone buzzed in his pocket, and he pulled it out, answering to Bobby.

“The priest had Enochian carved into his back,” Dean said by way of greeting.

“What’s it say?”

“I dunno,” Dean answered, “Lemme send you a pic.”

Dean snapped a picture of the coroner’s report and texted it to Bobby. Five minutes later, Bobby called him back, after translating the message.

“You’re really not going to like this,” Bobby said in warning.

Dean closed his eyes for a moment. “Just tell me what it says, I need to know.”

Bobby’s exhale was heard through the phone line. “‘He is rising’,”

“Dammit,” Dean growled, his voice shaking with one part fury, one part grief. “I don’t fucking need this.”

“I know, son, but we can stop it, now that we know what it is.”

“Oh yeah?” Dean challenged. “How?”

“Dean, calm down. We just need to-”

“Holy shit,” Dean breathed out, cutting into Bobby’s fatherly encouragements, looking down at page he had turned to. “I’ve got a lead, actually,”

“What? What is it?”

“All their right hands had been cut off and placed over their hearts. In their fists, bible pages. But all the same one.”

“Which one?”

“Revelations 1:3,” Dean told him. He’d already read it, this past year.

“So we’re talking apocalyptic,” Bobby mused, “That’s great.”

“Tell me about it,” Dean groused. He closed the file. “I gotta find Sammy,” he said, “Whatever this is, he’s in the thick of it. I’ve gotta track that Ford down.”

“You said you didn’t even know if it was him,” Bobby warned, “And it might not be. It could be a stranger. More’n that, it could be Lucifer, kid. You gotta be careful.”

“No,” Dean shook his head, even though Bobby couldn’t see him. “If it is Sam, I gotta see him. I gotta save him. Seeya, Bobby.”

He hung up and dialed another number, speaking to the police force about a suspect in a vehicle while walking to the Impala. Once inside, he took one look at the passenger seat and vowed he’d fix everything for good. There wouldn’t be any gaping holes to fall into this time.

**  
**

THE VOWELS, PART 4 . (NOW)

He had known that voice.

He was sure he had.

Before he could do anything, Dean was dragging him off, claws sunk deep in his forearm, and he swore he could hear his bones shift and crack as his body was shaken and jerked. He was painfully reminded that he had just been in a fucking car crash, and he opened his mouth to speak but Dean was telling him to get in the Ford and go, whispering it insistently much how he imagined a Schizophrenic’s internal dialogue sounded. Like an automaton, he wrenched it open. When he saw the dead woman the woman he killed, his breath caught in his throat--

Dean was screaming at him. Dean was furious, yelling and yelling, shoving at him and begging him to save the world. How was this saving anything? Weak with pain, Sam dragged the woman out of her car and climbed in. The key was still in the ignition. The ceiling of the car had partially caved in, but there didn’t seem to be any other damage, unlike his Cavalier. The car weakly whined as he pushed it back onto the highway and drove away, gaining speed. He looked into his rearview mirror to watch the Impala, to watch the man that had been there.

Dean pushed the rearview mirror hard enough to crack the glass. The shards fell neatly out of the plastic encasement and onto the floor, dotting little rainbows all over the walls and ceiling of the car.

Sam’s head felt like it had been blown up to twice its size and filled with cotton. His persistent migraine hadn’t left, and the car wreck had definitely hurt him. Parts of him were numb, and parts of him stung with life, freshly bleeding. He was at the end of his line. Dean was speaking to him but he couldn’t get himself to listen.

“I need a hospital,” he croaked, talking over Dean’s insistent monologue. He swallowed. His spit tasted like iron and gravel. “I need help.”

Dean didn’t stop talking. Sam sighed, and the action sparked a spear of fresh pain through his chest. He knew that was a bad sign. Straightening his back, he gripped the steering wheel tighter, watching the exit signs for a hospital. There. Two exits from here. He tuned Dean out, focusing on the lines on the pavement instead. Dean’s voice went from an irritating rumble to a dull buzz, and as he got off the highway, it was just a ringing in his ears. Inconsequential. Maybe Dean had stopped talking altogether, and it was just the headache. He couldn’t tell. He felt completely alone.

The car bounced over something. The curb. The physical jerk brought him back from whatever daydream had him tottering over, leaning against the door and closing his eyes. The glass of the window pane was so cool. He was desperate to sleep, to just let himself drift away right here and now, but he knew that would be it. Game over. And he wouldn’t just be able to start over or respawn.

Whimpering and biting his lips, he yanked the key out of the ignition and leaned on the door handle. It opened and he spilled out onto the pavement, crying out when he landed on his stomach and something stabbed into his lungs.

Okay, this was way worse than he had been letting himself believe. How had mind won out over matter so strongly? Was it even possible to let your mind change what happened to your body?

The thought shook him further. He didn’t want to think about it. Something was stopping him from thinking about it. He swallowed down bile.

Dean had been his anchor of sorts. Perhaps his minefield would be a more apt comparison. Dean had been the one to get him into the other car, out back onto the roads and away from the concerned man. Why? Why didn’t Dean want him at a hospital? The afterimage of an old black car was burned into his eyelids, and it seemed significant, but he was too tired to think about it, to think about anything at all.

He whined in surprise when arms reached beneath his armpits and his legs and lifted him up. A voice was telling him to calm down, to lie still, and it wasn’t Dean. It was a nurse. Control yourself, he told himself. These people are here to help. He let himself be loaded onto a stretcher and poked and prodded. He stared straight ahead. His line of sight went from a starless sky to the colorless cement of the car bay roof to the dropped ceiling panels of the inside of the hospital.

Something stabbed into his arm and the world was under warm water.

_Good,_ he thought, _drown me._ His lips were saying something else, without his control.

It was Latin.

\--

Sam knew time was passing him in droves, but he couldn’t stop it or slow it down. He couldn’t do anything about it, lying supine under a sea of blackness. Sometimes he got closer to the surface, things fuzzing and whining into lighter shades, lighter colors, but then something would happen and he would be plunged back downward.

So he let it happen.

Everything was nothing. There was nothing to reach to, nothing to reach for, and no story to finish. No villain to kill and no family to save. He was null.

Feeling distantly like a hypocrite, he waited for salvation to find him.

\--

He didn’t know how long it had taken, but he was finally able to open his eyes. They felt covered over with cement, and he had to blink and squint against the glare before he could focus on anything, could rouse some thoughts to his addled brain.

He watched the ceiling, letting his eyes adjust, while he listened to his heart monitor beep steadily. He was in a hospital-- he knew that much. It felt good to have something solid in his head, something real, so he slowly moved his neck, looking around, waking up.

He was strung up to an IV and a pint of blood, O-negative. His breathing felt restricted, and he poked around below his blanket, finding his chest was bound and one of his arms was in a cast. His body was dotted with sutures and stitches, some smaller than others, across all the skin he could see. One of his eyes felt bulbous and huge and stung at the softest brush.

He was in bad shape.

Grimacing, he sat up, his vision swimming. He breathed out his mouth in short bursts, already exhausted, feeling the nasal cannula dig into his nose.

“I’m sorry.”

Sam started, turning quickly to his right and regretting it, wincing. Leaning back in a hospital chair, sat Dean, looking at him with shining eyes and a wobbling lip.

“Dean--”

“No, Sam. You were right. I should have taken you straight to the hospital. I should have told you everything. It’s just… we have so much to do, I didn’t want you distracted by the ghosts of your past or the skeletons in your closet.”

“You’re one of those ghosts, I think.”

Dean looked visibly rattled. “Don’t say that. Why would you say that?”

Sam deflated, rubbing a shaking hand down his face. “I’m sorry, okay? It’s just been a really rough couple of days and I’m just so tired.”

Dean smiled at him weakly. “I get that. Here, I’ve got something I think will help you out.”

Sam watched him silently, filled with curiosity but too battered to display it, as he dug through his pocket and pulled out a cord. On the end of it was a worn little wooden cross, stained darker in places by his blood.

“ _Clavis est_ ,” Dean told him, “I thought you might want it back.”

Sam felt warm. That was something familiar. He relaxed back against the pillows as Dean stood, towering over him and sliding the necklace over his head. When it fell into place against his heart, his head felt clearer, more coherent than it had in ages. He nodded at Dean, smiling softly back at him. “Thanks.”

Dean nodded, watching him with an unreadable look in his eyes. “No problem.”

Sam opened his mouth to ask Dean something else when an elderly nurse came in, gasping audibly as she looked at him.

“You’re awake!” She marveled. “My god, you’ve only been out of surgery for three hours! What a miracle boy you are. You must have an angel watching over you.” She beamed at him, bustling around and checking all his stats, scribbling notes down on a clipboard.

Sam blinked. Three hours? He didn’t have the most solid grasp on time, but it felt like he’d been in that transition unconscious state for days, not hours. The accident had happened earlier today. And yet he felt semi-healed, cognizant and patched up.

“I’ll send your doctor in to take care of you,” the nurse informed him, her gray curls bobbing up and down as she turned and slipped out of the room.

“You feel about ready to go?” Dean asked him, startling him again. Sam had forgotten he was there, lost in his thoughts.

“Go?” Sam repeated uneasily. “I just got here-- I’m still hurt, Dean.”

Dean shifted, looking around. His jaw worked. “I don’t think we’re safe here.”

“What?” Sam perked up a little, staring Dean down. “Why?”

“Someone’s after us. Because of the trucker, maybe. Or the church, I don’t know. Or they’re just against our holy mission in general, some decrepit sinner.”

“But…” Sam struggled for an explanation. “Why would they do that? Do you know who it is?”

“Some bastard in an old black junker,” Dean told him dismissively, “All I know is that we can’t let him stop you. We have to leave before he catches up and hurts you even more. How can you succeed if you’re dead?”

Something about his comment on the car rubbed Sam the wrong way, but he had virtually no evidence to back up his discomfort. The only foundations he had to stand on were made out of Dean-- the little Dean had told him, Dean’s stolen touches, Dean’s words. They were substantial.

Sam nodded slowly, pursing his lips. “But we have to lay low, okay? I need to heal. Then we can keep doing the rituals. I promise. I won’t disappoint you.”

Dean practically glowed under Sam’s response, grinning like a cat after a mouse and propping his feet up on Sam’s bed. “Why, Sam,” he said lowly, excitement building in his tone, “I think this’ll turn out just fine for all of us.”

Dean stood, moving the curtain to the side and peering down to the front of the hospital. He swore, glaring down at whatever was pissing him off. “We don’t have any time. We have to leave now.”

Perpetually feeling like he was a couple steps behind Dean, Sam’s resolve wavered, his thoughts bunching painfully behind his forehead. Dean read him easily, and seemed to restrain an eyeroll before bending down and kissing Sam resolutely on the lips, urging Sam’s mouth open and deepening the kiss. Sam closed his eyes, and Dean’s hand found the back of his neck, then his collarbone, then his necklace, pressing it over his heart. Dean pulled back, and Sam kept his eyes shut, trying to memorize the lingering feeling on his lips.

“You think you’re alright to get the hell outta here?” Dean asked him as he opened his eyes, staring him down. Sam nodded quickly. He felt energized, powered up like he always did after Dean touched him. He pushed his blanket off of his legs, and Dean helped him out of bed. “All your stuff is still in the Ford. They didn’t move it, it’s still down by the curb. Do you remember the Latin from earlier? Can you say it again?”

“The Latin…?” Sam trailed off, before vaguely remembering what he’d said when he’d been brought in. Dean grabbed him by the arm as he rambled it off, his cross hot against his skin, and they slid out of the door, the doctor waiting slack-jawed outside. He didn’t stop them as they sped past him, hurrying down the hall. No one stopped Sam even though he must’ve looked run-over, in a hospital tee and sweats. They went down the elevator and turned down a back hall, leaving through a service bay instead of the front door. They seemed to be invisible-- people mutely let them pass as they found their way to freedom.

The car beckoned.

**  
**

THE CONSONANTS, PART FOUR . (THIRTY MINUTES AGO)

Working with Bobby over the phone, they located what looked to be ritual that fit in with the omens and murders in town. It was a ritual give Lucifer a lifeline from the Cage to Earth, and from there, he might be able to rise. It was too vague, too old, written too poetically and flowery. They’d found it in a rare copy of Revelations that Bobby claimed was one of only 6 worldwide.

Except they didn’t fucking know how it worked.

What was his lifeline? What did the murders mean? Were they like the seals, and a certain number would open up the door? The book didn’t say. Or, if it did, they couldn’t transcribe it properly. It was pretty much open to interpretation, and Dean and Bobby were out of ideas.

“I could use a fucking break from this Lit 101 bullshit,” Dean rumbled in the same moment his phone vibrated in his pocket. Not recognizing the number, he put the phone to his ear, cautiously uttering a “hello?”

“Agent Frehley?” a vaguely familiar voice asked, and Dean’s heart went double time.

“Yeah, that’s me,” he said, unconsciously nodding. “Did you find the car?”

“As a matter of fact,” The officer- whose name Dean hadn’t bothered to remember- confirmed. “A man was brought into the St. Lawrence Hospital around an hour ago in critical condition. He crashed the car right up against the E.R. bay. He should still be there-- want us to send a team up?”

“Wait for me,” Dean said, urgency pumping through his veins instead of blood, already on the move, grabbing his keys and heading out the door.

Dean heard the guy say something and hummed an affirmative, only thinking about Sam, if the man was Sam. He ended the call without a goodbye and shoved the phone into his pocket, sliding into the car and sticking the key in the ignition in one fluid movement.

And if he was Sam, if he was even alive.

Dean managed to restrain his panic and desperation enough to park the car in an actual spot, a couple of rows from the emergency bay. He sprinted his way to the doors, which had no car out front but a sizeable chunk was missing from one of the concrete columns. He hoped it wasn’t one more thing that could potentially fall on him, smothering him.

A man in nurse’s scrubs stood in the lobby, wavering slightly on his feet with his brow dipping in confusion. He looked lost, his eyes shining like a little kid alone in a supermarket, and he drifted, picking directions at random.

Dean watched him for a beat, mouth open to ask a question he hadn’t even formed in his head yet, before he was off again, bypassing the elevator in favor of the stairs. He took them two at a time before he realized, on the landing of the second floor, that he had no idea what room the could-be-Sam man was in. Hell, no idea what fucking wing. Shit, shit shit. He’d gone again and rushed in thoughtlessly, letting his stupid fucking bleeding heart get ahead of the mind John had so carefully sculpted within him. He stopped, breathing heavily, smashing the palms of his hands into his eyes and begging himself to just stop. To think. Think like Sam. He tried to pull up a list of wings and probable locations, but he couldn’t, in this regard he wasn’t his brother’s equal.

He shook his head roughly, doggedly, and pushed the stairwell door open and out into some hall. There was a nurse’s station up ahead, so it was there he trudged, hoping someone would be able to tell him something. One nurse sat at a desk, a hand on her chin and eyes glued to the screen before her.

He approached, not caring if he looked like a haggard vagrant or a normal citizen, or if he was even allowed up here. He swallowed, plastering on one of his widest grins, the kind that made old ladies give him cookies and made waitresses stutter and blush when they looked him in the eye. “Hey,” he beamed, putting his hands in his pockets and rocking on his heels, “you wouldn’t happen to know where the car accident patient was taken? I’m um-- oh. Sorry. Plainclothes, right now.” He paused, swallowing, and took out his fed badge with barely shaking hands, showing her for half a moment before his hands went back in his pockets. “I’d like to see him, please.”

In the first fraction of a second that she didn’t respond, Dean was sure that he’d lost any semblance of professionalism, of a calm, solid demeanor, of anything that made him the hunter and therefore the person he used to be. He’d been too nervous, too twitchy, too suspicious in his clothes, which may or may not have bloodstains on them. It was like Sam on his first hunt, too small and boyish to pose as any sort of professional but he’d bullheadedly tried anyway, against John’s words. In an ill-fitting suit, he’d tripped over his words and swallowed midsentence, and the coroner had interrupted, threatened to call the police. _I don’t appreciate foolhardy boys,_ he’d said, pushing his bifocals up on his nose, _go back to school and think about what you’ve done._

Dean had laughed in his face as he ushered Sam out, a hand firmly on his back and steering him out, wondering how they’d made it this far in Sam’s little plan. Sam looked genuinely contrite, ducking his head and telling Dean to shut up, even though he hadn’t said anything.

Sam had gone by John’s instructions of breaking into morgues after that without complaint, but that didn’t stop him from dressing Dean up in suits the moment they were on the road again, but this time Sam’s disguises worked smoothly, and they’d be in and out of towns within weeks, like a well-oiled machine.

Dean jolted out of his stupor when he realized the nurse-- shit, he never checked her nametag, it was his trademark to use names in order to charm (nurse Maria)-- was talking to him, giving him directions. So it’d worked, even though he’d acted like a shaking fucking leaf or some other bullshit. He started listening again, smiling again, only half the wattage. He got the gist of what she was saying and thanked her, moving off in what he hoped was the right direction.

God, what was wrong with him? He’d just done the simplest thing, something that should come as easily to him as speaking, and he couldn’t. He’d stumbled, failed, and his mind had slid back to thoughts of Sam, his favorite memories, as if it was all he could do. Think of Sam. Sam, Sam, Sam. He mentally beat himself, his cheeks and eyes burning. He turned a corner, shaking his shoulders and trying to shift into the image of a man who had himself put together fully before he made it to the hospital room.

A man began to walk in pace with him, shoulder to shoulder, and he belatedly realized it was the cop. He nodded briefly to him, staring down the numbers next to each door. 204, she’d said? 214?

“It’s just ahead,” the officer murmured, walking a half-step ahead of Dean. Dean breathed out, letting his anxiety sink away from him. The cop stopped in front of 204 and froze, his entire body going taught. Dean was already pushing past him into the room as the guy grabbed his radio and started barking into it, requesting backup.

The room was empty. The bed was unmade, a nasal cannula lying on the sheets and the heart monitor going flat, a single steady noise that had only ever meant bad news. Dean stumbled back out, his head feeling light and staticy. He was filled with a new sort of determination, the sort he usually reserved for people who decided they’d like to mess with Sam, hurt him.

He looked left and right down the hall, for any sort of signs or clues about where the man could’ve gone. There was another nurse’s station up ahead, and he made his way to it, walking faster when he noticed a man was on duty.

He must’ve seen something, if anyone had come this way. Dean put his hands on the counter, and the man didn’t startle, didn’t shake. He turned slowly to Dean, practically drifting, and looked at him with blown pupils. A line of spit shone in the light when he turned his head, from the corner of his lip to his chin.

“Did anyone come this way? Any patients?” Dean demanded, a sickly uncertainty setting in his stomach.

The man nodded, only a slight moment, his eyes flickering to a space just above Dean’s shoulder before he spaced completely out, sagging in his chair.

“Fuck,” Dean muttered, and kept walking, hoping this was a sign. It definitely seemed supernatural to him, the way this man and the one in the lobby acted like zombies. He was on the lookout for more people, thinking there might be a trail of snail-people, all glazed over from something going this way.

It made Dean angry. If this turned out to be something, then it wasn’t Sam. Sam didn’t have the fucking ability to magically stone other people around him.

The heat in his belly turned to ice. Was it Lucifer? Was he capable of this? Had he gotten topside somehow, walking around in his brother’s skin like he owned it? It didn't make sense. None of it fucking made sense. All Dean knew, with a depressing sort of certainty, was that something was wrong and he had to fix it. He kept moving, turning around whenever faced with a fully functioning human being.  He found himself near a back stairwell, at the southwest corner of the building. Standing there, he was thinking again, like a hunter would, putting on the shoes of what he was hunting. If he was headed this way, he was probably taking the back exit-- a quick getaway.

Taking his pistol out of his waistband and fingering off the safety, he started moving down the stairs, heart beating in his ears in time with his steps. Bursting out of the emergency exit, gun held up and ready to shoot, he was met with absolutely fucking nothing. An empty loading bay, a garbage bin, a line of trees. He thought back to the dent in the cement, the car gone from the emergency bay. Had the sonofabitch used the same getaway car? Why?

Dean wanted to scream, so he did, yelling out once and taking a swing at nothing, his momenting making him stumble forward a few steps. He stopped, hunched over his hands on his knees, breathing like a marathon runner. The professional part of him argued that he should find that cop again and work with him, do an official investigation.

All the other parts of him, in an overwhelming majority, wanted to have a fucking drink.

**  
**

THE VOWELS, PART FIVE (NOW)

Dean was jumpy, agitated. It was like he knew Sam's thoughts kept going back to the car, to the incident. Sam didn't mean to be distrusting of Dean, he didn't mean to think things behind his back, but he couldn't stop himself. A few things weren't adding up and he was furious at himself that he couldn't put the pieces together, that he came and went in waves, sometimes strong, sometimes dead. Sam sat on the end of his bed with his head hung low, his hair completely obscuring his face. He thought he might get a haircut, but Dean liked tying it up, liked pulling on it when he grinded down against Sam, fluid and serpentine and made of lust.

Sam didn't speak. He waited, knee jiggling, wanting Dean to make some kind of verdict.

"Alright, listen," Dean said, ceasing his pacing directly in front of Sam, forcing him to look up at him, "I think it'd be okay if we took a break, just for the moment. The rest of the rituals can wait a couple of hours, right? Do you want to take a break? We could hustle more pool, maybe have a few drinks together. Or something," Dean stressed, his voice stretched thin, and it sounded like he wasn't too smitten with the idea, but Sam livened up with his words. Bar outings still seemed distantly familiar. Maybe being there, feeling safe with Dean, would jog some concrete memories free. Maybe Dean would finally say a few things about Sam's past, tongue loosened up by liquor.

"I'd love to," Sam said, warmth in his voice and in his body. "But let's go to a different bar-- the last one didn't end... it didn't end well, right? We can drive further. If that's okay," he added, as an afterthought, worrying a hole in his jeans larger with his thumb and forefinger.

Dean looked at him with that schoolteacher look again, equal parts proud and smug. "There's my Sammy," he said, "good plan. Let's hit the road."

Sam smiled up at him and stood, taking the keys from Dean's outstretched hand. They were still cold and shining, but warmed slowly in Sam's hands, reminding him that he was alive.

They took their bags with them, leaving the Ford in the parking lot and stealing another car, which gave Sam a thrill. This one was a little older, a little rustier, but the important part was that it drove. They were off, returning to the highway where things had gone so sour only six or seven hours ago. Dean put a hand on the back of Sam's neck, centering him, letting him stay focused. They chose an exit at random based on how many hotels it had on the "Lodging" sign, and found a bar easily, tucked into the quiet main street and already humming with the beginnings of nightlife, glowing from the inside out and filled with moving bodies.

Sam parked at the curb and unfolded himself from the car, stretching and wincing when the injured arm ached, the sling pressing it close to his chest. He knew he must look like a fucking mess, covered in bruises and bandages and sutures, but Dean just grinned at him from across the top of the car, that thousand-wattage grin that always made Sam feel a little more secure, made his worries feel a little less significant. They headed in together, shoulders brushing, and the music and atmosphere instantly hit them, turning the anonymous, even with the severity of Sam's injuries.

Blending in, he relaxed all the way, letting his mind go completely blank as Dean led him to the bar. Sam smiled at Dean, just for kicks, because he was happy. He ordered them each a single beer, hoping to keep the rounds coming and loosen Dean up.

Sometimes he felt bad for Dean, felt like he was being a pain to him. Dean had a weight on his shoulders, too-- he had to lead Sam to salvation. He had to pretty much carry him, because Sam felt both blinded and deafened by the blank emptiness of his head, the way he always woke up in a sweat, shaking from some nightmare he could'nt remember even a split second later. He relied on Dean. He deserved a break.

They both did.

The waitress was blushing at him, sending him little looks and completely ignoring Dean. It surprised him-- wasn't he skinny and weak? Beaten up? And surely he dulled in comparison to Dean, who seemed to bring light everywhere he went. Dean always got the attention of people, always stole their looks and their eyes.

Wait. Wait. Sam froze, the cogs shifting into place in his mind. Was that a memory? The knowledge that Dean was good with people, a suave flirt? He didn't have much evidence of it from the past few weeks, when he'd woken up in the spanning deserts. So it had to be something. The thought made him antsy with anticipation, made him take another swig to hide the emotions brewing inside him. He wanted to remember so badly, but every time he brought it up, Dean assured him it was fine. Dean would get upset if he told him about this. Dean would make them leave.

Sam stayed silent, just enjoying Dean's company, revelling in the comfortable silence and humid bar. He knew with certainty this was familiar. This was something he'd done before. He tried to remember being in a bar with Dean, but his mind fell short, disappointing him. He let it slide, already feeling a buzz from the alcohol that smothered his nerves. He'd remember. Dean would save him. It all just took time.

"You wanna hit the pool tables, Sam?" Dean murmured, leaning close, his breath hot against Sam's ear. Sam set his glass down and nodded, already scoping out the tables at the far end of the bar, looking for a potential target. Sam made a pleased sound, like a cat, and nuzzled his nose against the place where Sam's hair curled behind his ear.

Sam's heart fluttered about at an erratic pace, and his body was starting to have other plans about what he wanted to do. Dean's hand found his back again and he was being ushered over to the pool tables, right up to the one where another man stood, looking just a little bit lost but trying to put on a professional facade. Mentally, Sam catalogued him and the stakes-- this game would be an easy one, especially if he acted drunk, and they'd bank five hundred dollars at least.

Dean was pressed up against him from behind, so warm it felt like he was burning Sam. Sam was having trouble focusing on the game when Dean's arms stretched on either side of him, his chin on Sam's shoulder. It felt like Dean was all around him, enveloping him, inside him, and his hands began to shake a little. He ended the game early, grabbing up four hundred, before muttering that he had to take a piss. He jogged over to the bathrooms, sliding between bodies easily and pushing inside. He splashed water on his face and looked at his reflection. It looked like an expired version of himself, all grey and thin, skin pallid and clinging where it should be glowing, stretching over muscle. What did Dean see in him? Why did he feel like this?

Desire for Dean and desire to fucking know who he was mingled but never mixed in his stomach, like two snakes twining around each other and causing his guts to churn. His hands gripped the porcelain edge of the sink, almost slipping because of the sweat slicking his skin. He had to get ahold of himself. Become rational. If he thought too much about his past, about anything, his head started to ache and freeze over.

He blindly fumbled for the door, now desperate to get back to Dean, hurtling himself out into the hallway and directly into the body of another man.

**  
**

THE CONSONANTS , PART FIVE (FIFTEEN MINUTES AGO) .

Dean wanted to get drunk.

More than that, he wanted to get fucking shitfaced, he wanted the world to blur and dip away from him and he wanted to wake up with the biggest fucking headache in the world and the vague sense-memories of sex, his fingers sliding up and down some body and the sheets stinking with it. He wanted more than just to forget all the bullshit he was going through, he wanted a fucking blue screen of death behind his eyes and to wake up reset to factory settings.

In other words, he was on a god damned mission.

Little podunk bars in places no one had ever heard of weren't doing it for him anymore, so he found a bigger bar, a place with more atmosphere, more people, more anonymity. He pushed through the doors, grateful for the burst of icy-cold air conditioning, and made his way through throngs of people to the furthest end of the bar, an obscured little niche with one flickering TV screen and a few aimless patrons.

The bartenders probably couldn't see around the corner, but a few minutes later a woman came ghosting around anyway, on autopilot. She leaned in front of him, auburn hair slipping into her face. She was waiting for him to say something.

"Best whiskey you got," Dean ended up sighing after one beat too many had passed, and she nodded, turning her back on him and filling a glass. Before he could even grab the glass, she was gone, disappearing to where the rest of the world was. Dean sipped lightly instead of chugging it all down like he wanted to. He supposed he could let himself admire this little corner of the universe for a little while, reminisce in some bullshit teenage memories before upping the buzz in his bones to something more serious. It wasn't often these days he found himself in a liminal space like this, and he wanted to revel in it, revel in the fact no one was looking at him or making eyes at him or anything. He might as well not exist.

Wouldn't that be convenient.

An irrelevant amount of time passed, the bartender coming around like clockwork and refilling his glass, even after he stopped asking her to. A baseball game on the television went through the ninth inning and one of the other men grumbled mildly, changing the the channel to the news. Dean tuned every single noise out, letting the lights get a little too bright and his balance a little less cocksure.

It wasn't long until the inevitable was creeping up on him, and he got up to take a piss, elbowing and shouldering his way through people too busy having fun, people he was out of sync with. The hallway with the bathrooms was even quieter than his little corner, and he blindly barrelled his way in and out of stall until he was standing in the hallway again, frozen. He felt like a hypocrite. He wanted peace, he wanted to be forgiven, and so he'd gone to a fucking bar to get wasted. _Real smart, Dean. Still as sharp as ever._ He leaned against the wall outside the men's room, ignoring the stink and the stains and the men who would lope past him.

He could practically physically feel the maudlin thoughts creeping up on him, reminding him that he was, despite what he wanted, not a fun drunk. He shook his head, shaking the glassiness from his eyes and trying to focus on something, anything, to stop him from imagining how Sam's hair felt a couple hours after a shower, all soft and silky smooth and stupidly long. He looked away from a painting on the wall because the particular shades of green and brown reminded Dean of Sam's eyes, sometimes like a summer day, sometimes like honey, always changing in the light, especially when he was pissed, darkening, shoulders twitching and fingers itching to come into contact with something.

"God damn it," he groaned out loud, hating the slur halting his words. A woman on the way to the bathroom gave him a look, but he couldn't give less of a single shit. No one fucking mattered. No one at all.

The men's door squealed open again and a body barrelled into him, and Dean was at the end of his last fucking rope, goddammit, he was on the last little stupid fiber--

He turned to face the asshat and stilled, his heart stuttering over a couple beats in his chest before speeding up. He didn't understand what he was seeing. He didn't get it.

The guy wasn't moving, either, staring at Dean with this blank frown like a deer in the headlights of a sixteen wheeler. He looked... he looked like Sam, but warped, messed up, a storebrand version of his little brother. He was too fucking scrawny, like a normal-sized person stretched out over Sam's giant body, shoulder bones standing out in sharp relief to his skin. His hair was tied up, but still shoulder-length, and ratty, knots causing it to lie dead. More than that, he was fucking beat to shit, his face barely even a healthy color, just myriads of purple, blue, black, and yellow instead. His clothes were too big and Dean didn't recognize them, but he didn't recognize much else of Sam, either.

But it was fucking him. It was him, it was him, _it was him._ Dean would know him anywhere, even if he was wearing a giant fucking rabbit suit. This was his little brother, somehow. Standing right in front of him. In a bar in Nowhere, Some State, Southwestern United States. Dean couldn't breathe, the lump in his chest growing exponentially with each second that passed, and the warmth on his face was probably from tears, whatever.

"Sam-" he started, choking across the syllable. He coughed. "Sammy-"

That seemed to wake up Sam, to revive him, and his eyes went from dull to shiny in an instant, and he was looking at Dean like a highschooler at the body of a frog in biology class, but fucking worse, horror and disgust mixed up on his face but the expressions were all wrong, they weren't Sam. They were someone else's.

Sam howled like an injured animal and threw a punch, his fist meeting Dean square in the face and catching him off guard. Dean sputtered, tasting the blood in his mouth, and he was so fucking happy. He could fucking feel the pain, his nerves were god damn lit with it, and Sam was still there, hovering, unsure, both hands raised like a boxer in the ring.

"Sammy," Dean said again, on purpose, wanting Sam to tear him limb from limb, to prove to him that they were here together, against all the odds in the entire universe, plus some. "Sammy, is that you?"

"What're-" Sam's voice was guttural and unused. "What are you? Who...?"

Dean expected his heart to sink, the air to leave his lungs all in one breath, his hopes to be dashed. But he felt exactly the same, smiling like a psycho killer in a slasher flick, all hot and sweating and bleeding and alive. Any maybe it wasn't Sam, or maybe he was fucked up beyond fixing, but he was fucking here. There was a chance. For something, for anything, to be salvaged. Sam wasn't burning away in hell.

"It's me," Dean said softly, approaching him as if he were a spooked creature, "it's me, Dean. Your more attractive older brother, huh? Are you okay, Sammy? C'mere."

Sam made another whimper in the back of his throat and backed away from Dean's advances, stumbling backward until he hit the wall, the picture frames rattling erratically where Sam's spine smashed against them. Sam's eyes were wide and wild, white visible all around his pupils. His eyes were skittering all over the bar, looking for a way out, a way away from Dean. Every time his eyes went to Dean, he jerked like he'd been electrocuted, his adam's apple bobbing as his eyes immediately dashed away.

"Look at me," Dean urged, almost whispering now, just loud enough to be heard over the dull music coming through the walls. He stepped closer again, and Sam had nowhere to go, freezing instead.

"Look at me," Dean said louder, getting up in Sam's face and staring into his eyes without blinking. He had no idea what to expect, no idea what the next step of this dance was. He wasn't aware of anything else-- Sam was his world, and when Sam came back, it was like everything else just bled away. He couldn't see anything else, couldn't think of anyone else.

Sam's eyes jerked up to his, frightened, but they didn't move away. It was some weird, electrically charged moment, and Dean was almost sad he couldn't hear the heavy bar music because he felt like this moment should come with a soundtrack, with a beam of holy light bursting from the ceiling and focusing on Sam.

Sam pulled in his breath, and Dean made sure he was paying attention when Sam suddenly stood straighter, fear clearing away to confusion. Sam's eyes slowly roved over his face, taking in every detail. Sam had that look that old acquaintances always did the split second before recognition hit and they smiled, memories flooding to the surface.

But Sam didn't smile. Sam didn't burst forward, laughing and crying, smashing Dean in his arms and burying his nose in Dean's neck like he always used to when they hugged. Sam didn't look relieved when Dean saw him remember.

He looked like he'd just been given the death sentence, actually.

He seemed to wilt, all at once, a frame cracking behind him. He ran a hand through his hair, trembling wildly and just making a further mess of his hair instead of fixing it. "Oh, god, no," he moaned, "no, no, no." Sam pushed him away, rough enough for Dean to trip backward. Then he was off like a rocket, pushing people aside and gunning for the exit.

"Oh hell no," Dean muttered under his breath, and gave chase to the one thing in his life that he cared got away from him.

The one thing in his life that fucking mattered.

He rammed into the door, feeling a vague pain in his shoulder as he tripped out into the parking lot, barely catching himself before crashing into the pavement. He found his balance again and kept running, chest heaving, scanning left and right for signs of a ginormous but way too thin little brother. A car's headlights lit up to his left and he didn't even think before he ran towards it, straight into the light. He ran around to the driver's side door and yanked it open, reaching in and grabbing Sam by the collar, pulling him out until he fell against the car in a daze.

"You're not leaving without me," Dean said breathlessly, gasping the words out one at a time. He wasn't angry, wasn't much of anything, his brain dead set on getting through to Sam.

Sam looked like he'd given up. He was leaning all his weight against the car, the door still open, car still running. His hair was mussed, half out of his ponytail, shielding his face and he was looking away from Dean, down at the pavement. He was waiting for something, pale and silent and Dean still wasn't entirely sure that he wasn't a ghost or a hallucination.

"You know who I am, Sam?" he asked once he'd gotten his breath back.

Sam nodded and raised his head slightly, looking miserable. "You're Dean," he said, with a tinge of sadness.

Did that count as progress? Dean nodded to himself. "Well," he started, still physically unable to look away from his battered brother, "our car's over there, not this one. You got any stuff to bring with you?"

Sam shook his head, lips pursed in a thin line.

"Okay," Dean sighed after a few tense beats of silence. "C'mon."

He took Sam by the arm, ignoring the small flinch that came along with the touch. He led Sam over to where the Impala was parked, and Sam halted when it came fully into view, his eyes widening as he took the car in, in all its beauty.

Dean felt a thrill of pride course through him. Sam obviously recognized his home, and maybe a spin in the passenger seat would do him some good. Dean knew he there was a fucking mountain of problems ahead of them, but he was more than happy to tackle it as long as Sam was there, too. He was professional at ignoring the thousands of elephants in the room, anyway.

He opened the passenger door for Sam after he stayed frozen like that, gawking. Sam seemed to get the message and he slowly limped over to the car, folding himself into it and it dipped under his weight. Dean ran around to the driver's side and slid behind the wheel, starting up the car. He glanced at Sam and his cast tucked into his lap, and had to restrain himself from laughing in relief. It felt so natural to have Sam in the passenger seat, so real, like the last year of his life had been all a horrible fucking nightmare from some nasty drug drip.

Well, he was sure as hell sober now.

He pulled onto the road and toward the motel, watching out of the corner of his eye as Sam reverently traced the dashboard, long fingers bumping over the glovebox and lightly touching every button on the center console. He forced himself to focus on the road, to slow his heartbeat. He forced himself not to pull over and practically maul Sam with touches of his own, trying to relearn the new shape that was his brother.

He'd get his chance. Hopefully. He got onto the highway and turned on the radio when Sam turned antsy, his fingers grasping the seat in a death grip his eyes watching the highway like it would rear up and bite him. Dean knew the feeling. He sang along with a familiar song, trying to soothe Sam in one of many time-tested ways.

He didn't check to see if it was working, instead pressing his foot to the pedal, urging the car faster, listening to the purr it made as it ate up the pavement. He wanted them home as soon as possible.

He wanted Sam home.

**  
**

BOOK TWO. THE TROUBLEMAN.

-THE VOWELS AND THE CONSONANTS (THE SYLLABLES) .

Sam’s entire world had been dismantled. The few scant pages he had carefully constructed had been destroyed, burned away on a funeral pyre. Everything he knew about himself, about his past, was fucking wrong. The man he’d been with-- the man he’d let touch him, who was he? He wasn’t Dean. No, Sam knew with a heavy certainty in his chest that the man singing atrociously next to him was Dean. He didn’t know how, but the car, the green eyes, it was all too familiar. So who was the other Dean? Why had he been with Sam, mistreated him? And why was he gone now?

Sam had no fucking idea. All the questions kept piling up in his head, demanding to be answered, and he was developing a pretty steady headache. Worse than the ones he’d had for weeks now, ever since he woke up in the desert with not-Dean’s voice serenading him. Lulling him into a false sense of security. Making him... making him do rituals. Among other things.

But... he was good, right? He was going to save the world. Not-Dean had been so sure, with love in his eyes and confidence spewing from his mouth. Sam had felt a power grow within himself, sure and steady, like he was fumbling in a river but building a raft so he could get to shore. But Not-Dean might’ve been lying, Not-Dean was gone, and Sam’s safety was wrenched out from under him.

He was no one. He had nothing, no one. His hand instinctively went to the wooden cross around his neck, the only familiar thing he owned. He rubbed his thumb up and down the smooth surface and closed his eyes, leaning his forehead against the cool glass of the passenger side window. He heard Dean falter for a second before picking up the song again, as if he’d never missed a beat. Sam paid him no mind. He’d let Dean drive, let him take him god knows where, and see what happened from there. Even if Sam didn’t know a lot of things, he knew one thing for sure: Dean had some type of answer. He had some sort of story to tell, something Sam had been a part of. He was just too damn familiar, memories tickling at the periphery of Sam’s mind. He’d known the moment Dean had talked to him in that urgent, comforting tone that the man he’d been spending weeks with was a false prophet, that this man in front of him was something truer.

Sam swallowed past a thickness in his throat. He’d remembered something when Dean had grabbed him in the bar. Something about Not-Dean, something that had filled him with darkness and bile and poison.

But he couldn’t fucking remember. Everything slipped away from him, he felt so weak. Where had that strength gone? What kind of fucking chosen one was he? It made no sense.

He was given a brief respite from his encroaching thoughts when the car slowed to a stop and Dean pulled the key out of the ignition, the music dying with the engine. Dean mumbled something about checking in before hopping out of the car and into the motel’s lobby. Sam opened his own door and unfolded himself warily, stretching and peering over the top of the car into the darkness of an Arizona night. A small breeze ruffled his hair, carrying with it the scent of dry desert scrub. It was getting colder, and he folded his arms around his torso, hugging his jacket tighter around his body. City lights sparkled in the distance but the motel was an oasis to itself, some back road high upon a rise, alone, looking over everything like a sentinel. The sky was clear, freckled with stars and a full moon. The motel door jingled and Sam jerked, spinning to watch Dean approach.

Dean was spinning a motel key around on his finger, but the smile on his face was creeping, hesitant. “Room 103,” he called out, jerking his head back toward the line of doors. “I’ll grab our stuff, you go on ahead.”

He threw the keys to Sam and he caught them by reflex, staring down at them like they were some alien object, encoded in gibberish. He closed his fist slowly and blinked before lumbering over to the motel, keenly aware of Dean watching his every move. Like he’d run away, or something. Bullshit. He had too much to find out. He wanted to remember something real, to feel something real. After being nothing for eternity.

Their room wasn’t far away, and Sam unlocked the door, stepping inside and flicking on the light. Another unfamiliar, unappealing room. Two beds, side-by-side. It stirred a little something in his head, a feeling of disappointment. He laughed shortly at that thought. Past him hadn’t liked shitty motels, the same as blank-him. He sat down on the edge of the closest bed, one knee jiggling insistently. He’d gone through a whirlwind cycle of every emotion possibly today-- now he felt nothing, an empty sort of acceptance that this was his life. He’d do what Dean told him. He’d listen. Maybe he’d find Not-Dean, make him explain. Maybe he’d try to finish the rituals. Maybe he’d kiss Dean-- that’s what he and the other guy had done, right? That man was pretending to be Dean. Did this Dean and him climb over each other in the dark, too?

Dean stumbled in, walking slowly as he hauled what looked like two trips worth of duffel bags into the room. He dropped them unceremoniously to the floor and kicked shut the door before turning to face Sam, chest heaving.  “Uh,” Dean panted, hands waving around to various parts of the room, “welcome back, I guess.”

Sam said nothing. He had nothing to say to that. Dean was staring at him like he was waiting for a response, but Sam couldn’t think of a single appropriate word to tell this man. He didn’t even know him. He decided to cut right to the chase when Dean’s face fell and he sat on the bed next to Sam, a good two feet separating them.

“C-can you-” Sam paused when Dean glanced his way, “can you help me remember?”

Dean shifted until he was facing Sam, his toes pointing toward Sam’s. “What do you remember?”

Sam’s adam’s apple bobbed and he looked away from Dean’s eyes, from his freckles, his lips. He focused on a stain on the ceiling by the bathroom. “Nothing.”

He heard Dean’s intake of breath. “At all? What have- what have you been doing, Sammy? How long have you been topside?”

“Topside?” Sam echoed faintly, still refusing to look at him, feeling queasy. “Where was I before? Am I... am I Sammy? Who are you? To me, I mean? You seem familiar.”

Dean barked out a laugh, like Sam had said something absurd, and Sam turned to look at him, suddenly nervous, itching to move, to get away. And then Dean was scrubbing a hand down his face, and his eyes were wet and red, and his arms wrapped around Sam, pulling him closer, and he was crying. No-- more than that, he was sobbing into Sam’s shoulder, body shaking and wracking with the broken noises forcing their way out of his throat. Sam was trapped in the vice of Dean’s arms, pressed flush against this man, and he kept still, waiting for Dean to release him, his mind replaying one sentence over and over again as he slowed his breathing:

_I’m your other half._

Dean’s hand curled into the material of Sam’s shirt, right between his shoulder blades. He breathed in deeply once, the air rattling shakily into his lungs. He pulled away slowly, wiping his eyes with his sleeve. His lip wobbled, and he bit it, meeting Sam’s gaze with an apologetic look. “I’ve got a lot to catch you up on, kiddo,” he said, his voice hoarse and rough with the emotion he’d just let out.

Sam nodded slowly, staying quiet, afraid to provoke anything else from within Dean.

Sam pushed a lock of stray hair behind his ear before turning to face Dean, worrying his bottom lip between his teeth. “Dean-” he started, but couldn’t finish, listening to his heart pound away in his ears.

“Go ahead, Sammy,” Dean said, still breathless. “I’ll listen, I promise. I owe you that much.”

Why do you owe me anything? What happened? Part of Sam wanted to fucking scream. It should be like the T.V. shows, where he remembers everything the moment he sees Dean’s face, and all the puzzle pieces click together and they live happily ever after. But nothing was dredged to the surface, nothing was shoved to the front of his mind. All he got were vague flashes that disappeared as soon as he remembered them, and tiny feelings tugging at his gut whenever Dean’s eyes met him.

“I, uh...” Sam trailed off again, cursing himself for being such a wreck. He sat up straighter. “Do you think I’ll ever remember everything? I want to. I want to know who I am, who you are. I’ve been wandering around for weeks now and nothing’s happened. No memories. Do you think... do you think it’s possible?”

There was a pause as Dean mulled over Sam’s words. Sam watched the gears turn in Dean’s head as he tapped fingers insistently against a hole worn through his jeans before speaking. “I don’t know. I don’t know why you’re back, why you can’t remember. This is something we gotta figure out together, you know that right? You have to stick around.”

“I will,” Sam replied, surprised at the certainty in his own voice. “I need to know.”

Dean nodded, a small smile tugging lopsidedly at his lips. “Do you want me to tell you a few things about yourself?”

Sam tried to return the grin. “Only if you’re honest.”

Dean laughed, looking like a weight had been removed from his shoulders, and he got up, the bed lifting. He strode across the room and Sam could almost physically feel the loss of Dean’s closeness, something that told him he could trust Dean. Dean came back moments later, sitting closer than before, but still not touching. He was holding a worn leather journal in his hand, bookmarks and stickies popping up at all angles from between the pages. He handed it to Sam, who took it gingerly, cradling it like it was a child. He flipped open to a random page and was met with the drawing of a skeletal man, stretched out and eerie. He looked up at Dean.

Dean’s face was as sober as can be. “Do you know what that is?”

“It’s...” Sam swallowed. He flipped slowly through the pages, reading his name and Dean’s over and over again. The owner of the journal cared about them, about a woman named Mary. Sam jolted, throwing the journal to the floor as if scalded. An image was burned into his retinas, and he could feel his lunch rising up to revolt.

“Mom...” he choked as Dean opened his mouth, effectively shutting it. “She burned? Didn’t she?”

Dean nodded mutely, eyes wide, afraid to say something in case he broke whatever spell had overcome Sam.

“You...” Sam tried to find the words. “You’re my brother, but you’re more than that... you’re everything,” he whispered.

Dean nodded again, urgently this time, leaning close. His eyes flicked back and forth between Sam’s. “What do you remember?” his voice was hushed and low.

Sam stared at the journal on the floor between them, lying open to a picture of them when they were young. “Just that,” he told his brother sadly. “nothing else. My head hurts.”

Dean leaned back, creases appearing on his forehead. “You feeling alright?”

“No, I...” the words got caught before they left his mouth. He wanted to tell Dean about the other man, about his mission. “I think I should sleep,” he murmured instead, looking away.

A hand ghosted across his back, barely touching, before it was gone again. “Okay,” Dean whispered, “okay. We’ll get some sleep, huh?” he thumped Sam on the back. “Talk more in the morning.”

Sam nodded, waiting for Dean to leave, but he didn’t, lingering by Sam’s side, like he was afraid he’d disappear if he moved.

“Not going anywhere,” Sam told him, feeling his head start to pound harder.

“I know,” Dean said, touching Sam once on the knee before getting up and stretching, heading into the bathroom.

Sam watched him disappear behind the door, letting out a breath he didn’t know he was holding. He felt like someone was watching him, a cold tingle up and down his spine, but he ignored it, shoving off his shoes before curling up under the covers and squeezing his eyes shut, willing himself to fall asleep and be met with blackness. The feeling of impending doom lingered across his mind, and he wanted to warn Dean of something, but the thoughts mixed and blurred together as the exhaustion of the past hours caught up with him.

He’d tell him in the morning.

**  
**

THE SYLLABLES, PART TWO (NINE HOURS LATER) .

Dean watched Sam’s form from across the space between the two beds. Sam was curled up into a small ball, facing away from Dean, the covers drawn up and over his shoulders. It caused the ache inside Dean to yawn a little wider, because that’s not how Sam slept, all silent and still like that-- Sam would stretch out across the whole bed, usually on his back, his mouth hanging open as he drooled and huffed all over the pillow. He’d mumble and wet his lips, twitching and flopping about in his sleep like a deranged fish. He was a finicky sleeper, but could pass out in the Impala within minutes, the wavelike movement of the car lulling him to sleep.

This Sam was everything his Sam was not. It was like he was meeting a completely new person, one who had abused the shit out of Sam's body, twisted and distorted it.

Dean sighed, rubbing roughly at his eyes with the bases of his palms until he saw stars and patterns beneath his eyelids. Thinking this morbid bullshit wasn't going to do anyone any good. He wasn't going to help Sam get back to normal by wallowing in his own self pity, by missing the brother that was warm and breathing less than five feet away. He blinked and shoved the covers away from himself, sitting upright and yawning lethargically, staring around the room with dull, sleep-weighted eyes.

When the bed creaked as he climbed out of it, Sam started, his back twitching as he craned his neck to squint at Dean, suspicion clear in his eyes until he recognized Dean and relaxed, shuffling up and out of bed.

"Morning, sunshine," Dean said, wincing as he heard his own voice waver instead of sounding confident and supportive like he'd imagined. Sam grunted in acknowledgement, clearly still half-asleep. Dean snorted under his breath and made his way over to the shitty little kitchenette, starting a pot of coffee. He drummed his nails on the puke-green formica countertops, watching as Sam stumbled over to the single backpack Dean had provided for him, pulling out a change of clothes.

Dean blew out a breath, trying to get himself to relax. This was a normal scene, one he'd watched playing out a thousand times before. Some of the circumstances were a little strange, sure, but when weren't they? If he acted like everything was the same, maybe the universe would just have to give up and make things normal to accommodate his bullshit fantasies.

The hope was dashed as he watched Sam pull on a stained (was that blood?) cross on a leather cord, touching it reverently, like it had some deep meaning to him, except Dean had never fucking seen the thing. Sam pulled out a hairband and tied his hair, now unruly and wavy, up and out of his face.

As the coffee machine went to work, Dean put on his own clothes, listening to Sam go about his morning ritual. When Sam closed the bathroom door behind him and Dean heard the shower start up, Dean tugged his phone out of his pocket and had Bobby's number dialed in seconds, sneaking glances at the bathroom door as he waited for an answer.

It didn't take long. "Got anything?" Bobby's voice was gruff, just as keen as Dean to get straight to business.

"Uh sorta." Dean cleared his throat, holding the phone with his shoulder as he poured himself a cup of coffee. He paused, then grabbed some whiskey from his bag and spiked his drink. Just a little bit, to take the edge off things. "I've got Sam."

The outburst from Bobby was loud enough to be heard across the room and he cringed, waiting for the volley of questions to stop so he could explain. "I just fuckin' bumped into him, Bobby. We were both at a bar and I ran into this stick of a guy and looked up and it was fucking Sammy, malnourished as shit but in one piece. I brought him to a motel-- he's taking a shower right now, I did all the tests in his sleep. He's not a demon or a shifter, I made sure. He's just Sam. But he's--"

"Different?" Bobby supplied when the words got stuck in Dean's throat. "You know the deaths around here and Sam being outta hell aren't just damn coincidence, son. He's got something to do with this. Hell, I hate to say it, but he's probably the one killing all those folks, Dean. Maybe Lucifer doesn't respond to the usual tests. Keep your eyes on him, you hear?"

"Like you think I wouldn't?" Dean hissed, feeling his entire body heat up. "And he's not the damn devil! He's scared. He doesn't remember anything, only gets tiny little bits and pieces. He trusts me. I think hell really screwed with his head. I know the feeling. He probably doesn't realize he's doing the killing--"

"Doesn't make him innocent," Bobby interrupted pointedly. "We still have to figure this out, you know that. Treat it like any other potentially world-ending scenario. Bring him here, will you? I wanna see him for myself. And I finally got ahold of your buddy Cas. He'd recognize Lucifer, I know it, and I reckon he's got some answers."

Dean sighed, running a hand through his hair and taking another swig of his drink. "I know I just... I want him to be okay, god damn it. I want him to be normal and fine and happy and I wanna fucking hug the shit out of him but he's so different. Part of me doesn't want him to remember anything. Because of hell, but also because... I've done some shitty things, you know? Maybe I can be a better brother to him this time around. Make him happier."

"Dean," Bobby scolded, but the warmth in his tone was obvious, "you bring your little brother here as soon as you can, and we'll figure everything out. It'll all work out, you see."

Dean said his goodbyes, aware of how hollow his own voice sounded.

Bobby's promises had sounded just as empty to him.

Dean leaned against the counter, staring out of one of the windows with a listless expression. The world was still slightly pink, the sun just breaching the horizon. The heat was already creeping in, silent and dangerous, causing mirages to waver atop every building and car. The buildings were all dulled and grey, their colors patiently bleached away by the sun. Everything was brown, grey, green. Even the motel's interior was desert themed, with a cartoonish wallpaper of cacti and sickly green furniture. He was sick of being down here, sweating and feeling slow with the climbing temperatures. He decided the trip up to South Dakota was a good idea-- they could both use a change of scenery.

The bathroom door opened, and Sam came out, dressed, his hair loose and wet, curling around his shoulders. His shirt was wet and clung slightly to his body, accentuating how much fucking weight he'd lost.

"Sammy," Dean started, setting down his mug, "How do you feel about a roadtrip? Do you remember Uncle Bobby? He's dying to see you, man. We can stop wherever you want for a good hearty breakfast on the way."

He knew he was talking down to Sam, talking to him like he was a child or something, but he couldn't stop it. He didn't know how to act around this Sam.

Sam didn't appear to notice, only furrowing his brow slightly as he took in Dean's words. "I don't... I don't remember him, I'm sorry. Where does he live?"

"South Dakota," Dean beamed, "definitely a different brand of hellhole than the Southwest, huh? Whaddaya say, little brother? You up for it?"

Sam nodded, pursing his lips. "If you're going, so am I," he said, a firm resolution building in his gaze.

Dean smiled, but it felt false upon his face. He grabbed a duffel from the foot of his bed. "Then what're we waiting for? I'm starving."

Dean heard Sam following behind him, and sent up a silent prayer that Cas would hold all the answers.

**  
**

THE SYLLABLES, PART THREE (NOW) .

He was in the black car with his brother again. It was called an Impala. His brother's name was Dean. They were in Colorado, somewhere around Grand Junction, heading Northeast to South Dakota. Sam closed his eyes, controlling his breathing and repeating those facts over and over again in his head until they felt real. It was calming to know a few things about himself, to not get lost quite so easily like he did with that other man.

He sat up straighter when Dean pulled off the highway, coasting through a little nameless town with a couple of hotels and fast food joints. He sent Dean a questioning gaze, not sure if it was his place to openly ask why they were stopping.

"Gas," Dean supplied bluntly, seemingly able to read Sam's mind. "I'm gonna grab a few things from inside, then we'll be on the road again, sound good?"

Sam curved his lips up in an attempt of a smile and nodded, feeling the car jerk to a stop next to a pump at the derelict old gas station. Dean got out and went around to the back. Sam heard a couple muffled thunks, and then Dean was back, and then he was heading inside.

The very next thing Sam knew was a hand gripping his shoulder tightly and shaking him and he started, jerking around to see Dean's concerned face leaning over him, the radio turned lower. Sam swallowed, frozen, unsure of what to do. There was a bag of protein bars at his feet and the gas pump was gone from the car. When had all this happened? He could swear up and down that just moments ago he was watching Dean's silhouette through the glass doors of the gas station, loping through the aisles and picking things at random.

"You... you okay?" Dean asked hesitantly, sliding his door shut and wincing at the sound it made, as if that would upset Sam. "You spaced out or something. Your eyes were all glazed over and you were breathing quickly and you didn't react to a single thing I did, until just now."

"I..." Sam swallowed again, feeling faint. He was supposed to be stitching back together, not constantly falling apart. Had he spaced out often with the other Dean? He remembered doing so at least once, but that was back when he was more fragile, less grounded.

It was beginning to feel more and more like any progress he'd made was an illusion, that the mission he'd been sent on was a parlor trick to keep him distracted, nothing more. His skin felt stony and clammy as he thought about all the fucking touches, the sudden kisses, the late night sex in the pitch darkness, a hand clamped over his mouth to stifle his moans.

Dean must've noticed the greenness in his face because he was out of the car in an instant, practically sliding across the hood in his haste to get to Sam's side of the car. He flung the door open and Sam collapsed into his arms but pushed him away at the same time, stumbling out of the car and vomiting all over the pavement until he was retching hoarsely and nothing else would come up. The whole time, he could feel Dean near his back, rubbing circles into his back and mumbling nonsense under his breath in an attempt to be comforting.

The weirdest thing was that it was-- his mouth tasted like bile and stomach acid and his head was pounding, but he wasn't queasy or scared or guilty anymore, just tired. He shifted away from the mess on the ground and leaned bonelessly into Dean's arms, pressing his nose into the space where Dean's jaw met his neck. Dean made a squeaky noise of surprise that he'd probably deny later, but relaxed within a fraction of a second, wrapping his arms around Sam and glaring at the man one pump over who had stopped to gawk at them.

"Better?" Dean asked after a moment, his voice sounding fuzzy to Sam's ears.

Sam nodded against Dean's skin and peeled himself from his brother, standing up shakily and leaning against the car before his balance could fail him. Dean patted him once more on the back before walking back around to the driver's side and getting in, turning the music up loud. Sam rubbed at his nose and grimaced at the taste in his mouth, staring down the road for a brief moment before joining Dean in the car.

Without looking at him, Dean pulled onto one of the main roads and handed a water bottle to Sam. He took it gratefully, drinking down half of it before stopping to breathe, satisfied that his mouth now felt cleaner.

Only a few moments later they were back on the highway, and just yesterday highways had given Sam a horrible feeling, but now he relaxed as the car sped up, the sight of the road sprawling out in a straight line for as far as the eye could see settling his rattled nerves.

The tape ended and Dean made no move to replace it with another, still tapping his finger on the wheel to a beat that had long since disappeared. He was deep in thought, Sam could tell. His tongue was tucked in his cheek and his eyes kept narrowing at nothing.

Sam realized he was staring and turned to look out the dashboard window, feeling a blush heat his cheeks. "Dean...?" he asked haltingly, unsure where to go from there.

 

"Yeah, Sammy?"

"Can you tell me something about myself?"

There was a pause, a single beat where Dean's fingers stilled and the silence in the car was more complete, making Sam feel caged in.

"Sure," Dean finally said, his fingers resuming where they'd left off, and Sam released the breath he was holding, relieved the small moment had passed them by without incident. He waited for Dean to start up, shifting and stretching his legs in the cramped space. He made to grab a bar from the bag at his feet but decided against it, leaning back against the leather and looking out the side window instead.

"I don't... really know what you want to hear... so I'll just tell you a story that I think sums up some bits of you, okay? I'm sorta shit at this so no jokes or nothin'."

Sam didn't feel the need to interject, hoping his silence would encourage Dean to keep speaking.

"You were around twelve, 'cuz I was sixteen," Dean began, his voice going low, "and Dad had been training me for awhile, I'd been on a few small salt n' burns, nothing more. You were still learning how to use a gun, but Dad was proud of you just the same. Anyway, apparently I'd reached some great big right of passage because one day Dad came home and said he'd found a hunt, and he was leaving Sammy with a sitter for awhile.

"I remember stopping and taking in what he was sayin' for a bit, you know? It was my job to watch you, so he was obviously telling me he wanted me to go on an honest-to-god hunt with him. And you-" Dean stopped to huff a single laugh, glancing over at Sam before turning his eyes back to the road. "You looked up from your schoolwork, some giant, stupid textbook, and you said, 'that's bullshit, Dad'. I remember that so well. This was before you really got into your rebellious streak, before you and Dad had your screamin' fights. And Dad just stopped, and asked you to repeat yourself, and you did. You said you'd go insane without me there. You said it was finals, but I knew it didn't really count 'cuz you were still in middle school, you fuckin' nerd.

"Dad told you to find some friends to keep you busy, and you said why should you bother because we'd be gone in a couple weeks. Dad was going pretty red at this point, but you just kept going. You said kids at schools were assholes, and I was too, but at least I was your permanent asshole, you know? One you could come home to even in a different state. And that's all cute and emotional and all, but I couldn't stop fucking laughing at 'permanent asshole'. Is your other one temporary, Sammy? What'chu got back there now?"

Dean broke into a fit of childish laughter, and Sam couldn't stop the wide grin that was splitting his lips. "Dad was so fucking pissed, at both of us, but I was so proud of you and I wanted to make fun of you so bad. Dad let me stay a couple nights more, so you kinda won anyway. I just thought that was a good moment, the kinda shit you put on a Hallmark card. So there you go."

Dean laughed again, and this time Sam joined in, ears going red with embarrassment at the story. "Thank you," he said when he got his breath back, and he meant it.

Dean sobered up. "Any time," he replied, his eyes lingering on Sam with a little tinge of loss and affection before he tore his eyes back to the pavement in front of them. "You remember anything else? Asshole jokes jog anything loose?"

Sam's lips thinned and he looked out the window so he wouldn't see Dean's disappointment. "No," he murmured, watching Dean nod out of the corner of his eye.

"You will." Dean said, and he sounded so confident that Sam almost believed him.

Dean reached across the seats, blindly fumbling for the glovebox before his fingers found their goal. He tugged out another cassette at random, replacing it with the one in the deck and turning ACDC up loud.

Sam settled back, the heavy guitar riffs somehow making him feel safer and more centered.

 --

He woke to Dean's head leaning over him, blocking out ambient moonlight. He hadn't even realized he'd fallen asleep, mumbling apologies as he sat up and rubbed at his eyes, yawning lethargically. Dean got out of the car and was taking bags from the trunk when Sam finally pawed his own door open, looking up at the black, cloudy sky before looking over at a house before them, windows lit with a yellow glow. He stretched, stepping out onto gravel and taking a look around. The house was surrounded by a junkyard, half-destroyed cars lying in rows all around him.

"C'mon, Sammy, he's still up, waiting for you," Dean said, shaking him out of his thoughts. Dean shifted one of the bags on his shoulder and started wobbling up the steps, Sam following closely behind. Before they got to the door, it opened by itself, a sharp beam of light spilling out onto the porch. A grizzled old man stepped out, grumbling something and taking a bag from Dean before disappearing back inside, gesturing for them to follow.

Sam swallowed, suddenly increasingly aware that this man knew him very well and he didn't know him at all. It wasn't like with Dean where there was a shadow of emotion, the recognition and heartsick feelings staying even if his memories had left. Bobby was nothing. Bobby was a blank slate.

He shut the door behind himself very slowly, giving himself a small moment to breathe and center himself before he turned back to his family. When he was facing them, they were both staring at him with unreadable looks, and he felt like a bug pinned down for observation, unable to move as they poked and prodded him.

"Good to see you, son," Bobby finally said, breaking the silence. He made to hug Sam, and Sam flinched, taking a half-step backward and quickly scanning the house to avoid looking Bobby in the eye. Bobby coughed and took his hands back to his sides, adjusting the cap on his head before shooting Dean a questioning look.

"I don't remember you," Sam whispered, to stop them from having a conversation about him right in front of him, like he was some little kid or crazy person, lost in some other world.

"S'all right," Bobby said easily, brushing him off with a smile that was only slightly strained. "We'll patch you up and you'll remember all the weeks you sulked here in no time."

Dean laughed, and Sam took it as a cue to join in, smiling mechanically alongside him. Bobby bulldozed over the moment, ushering them into the kitchen and forcing them to sit at the table. He moved about behind Sam, the sound of pots and pans clanging together the only suggestion of what he was doing. A bowl of chili appeared before him, and before Dean. "I'm gonna call Cas," Bobby muttered before disappearing into a room, which looked like a study to Sam, littered with books.

Sam ate robotically, going through the motions even though he didn't quite taste what he was eating. Dean was making sexual sounds across from him, digging into the chili like it was the best thing he'd ever tasted. Dean looked up at him from his hunch over the table, lips splattered red, and wiggled his eyebrows suggestively. The look faded immediately as Dean took in the sweat on Sam's brow, the obvious discomfort of his posture.

"It's not that bad," he grumbled past a mouth full of food. "wasn't ever your favorite but you never complained before."

Sam shrugged mutely, not sure what he was supposed to say to that. He continued taking small bites, just so he wouldn't have to go to sleep not only in a strange house, but hungry too.

Sam sighed, leaning back and looking around. Nothing was familiar, no bells were being rung as they had with the journal. He didn't feel a single thing as he looked around at the pictures on the wall, some of him when he was younger. Only disappointment, mainly aimed at himself.

Bobby's heavy footsteps caused Sam and Dean to look up in sync, spoons clattering into bowls. "He'll be here soon, just had to deal with a few things," he told them, "I told him Sam was here and he promised to hurry."

Sam looked back and forth between Dean and Bobby, staring at the mirrored looks of hope on their faces. "Who's Cas?" he asked into the silence.

They turned to him. "An angel," Dean said, leaning back. "A real one. Loads of superpowers. He's nice, a little awkward, but he'll be able to help."

Sam nodded, biting his lip. Before he could say anything else, he heard the flapping of bird wings and there was another man standing in the room.

The moment Sam looked in the eye he knew something was wrong. The man was... he was glowing, a white-blue haze radiating from around his body, save for two black shadows reaching out from his back, fluttering restlessly like wings. Sam felt his heart speed up, and his body went into prey mode. He heard himself whimper as he stood up, his chair tumbling behind him, and he stepped around it without looking, backing up until he hit the stove in the corner of the room. Memories were shooting into his brain with the force and frequency of an automatic gun, of other men, always glowing blue and white, always laughing, tearing into him and tearing him apart, shaking to his screams as if they were music. He remembered one of them had used him, had spread him open and fucked him, using the blood that poured out as lubricant, whispering awful things in Sam's ear. Telling him he was his and no one else's.

Dean stepped toward him, said something, but everything sounded as if Sam had been plunged underwater. He shook his head, shaking violently, knew his eyes were open wide enough to look rabid. He couldn't decide who to look at, they were all crowding him, but the angel man took priority, he was going to hurt Sam. He was going to hurt him badly, take everything away from him, like the others had. Memories were now streaming constantly behind his eyes, and his headache had blossomed into a full on migraine, so painful he was surprised he wasn't bleeding from the eyes and nose.

They were too close. All of them. It was too much, and his eyes rolled back into his head, his arms lashing out blindly as he screamed and screamed. He couldn't hear himself anymore, only felt his throat vibrating, brain overloading, felt cold hands grasping him all over, and then there was nothing at all.

**  
**

THE SYLLABLES, PART FOUR (TEN HOURS LATER) .

Dean was fucking tired.

He was downright exhausted, if he were to be honest. When Sam had started panicking last night, he hadn't known what to do. He was trying to stay away from all of them, Dean included, and probably bruised the shit out of his back in the way he kept forcing himself backward into the edge of the metal stove.

Dean felt an ache grow inside him as he remembered what had happened. He had never, ever seen Sam so terrified. He wouldn't stop screaming, voice going hoarse and filled with tears until he'd slumped to the ground, eyes going completely white.

God, Dean had thought he was dead. He'd pushed Cas out of the way, roared at him to leave, roared at Bobby when he'd tried to say anything at all, curling over Sam like a protective god damn tiger or something. Cas had only left for good when Dean started cutting his arm open, using his blood to reach up and draw sigils on the walls.  Dean had only left Sam's side once-- to punch Bobby in the face when he'd suggested putting Sam in the panic room.

Dean had promised he would never do that again. Not to Sam, no way.

He was now keeping vigil over Sam, sitting on the edge of the bed that his brother was curled up in. Sam hadn't woken back up yet, and part of Dean didn't want him to, because Sam looked so peaceful in his sleep, his face smooth and free of worry lines. Being awake would only bring back the memories and the fear, and Sam didn't fucking deserve that. He didn't deserve any of it, god damn it.

Sam's hand was hanging off the bed, and Dean took it in his own gently, placing it on Sam's chest. He stared blankly down at the pale skin standing out against the sheets.

Bobby knocked once before opening the door, but didn't come in, instead leaning against the doorframe. "Cas said it was the whole angel thing. Reminded Sam of Michael and Lucifer. He says... he's says there's nothing he can do for Sam now. The memories Sam'd been repressing came back in full force. He says he's sorry."

"You brought him back here?" Dean whisper-hissed in anger, ignoring all the other horrible words Bobby had said.

Bobby raised his hands palm-out. "Hey now," he murmured, "he was just waiting outside. Didn't ever leave. I was asking after Sam, alright? I do care for the boy."

"Yeah," Dean muttered to himself, lip curling up in snide as he busied himself with brushing hair away from Sam's face, watching Sam's eyelids flicker as he dreamed.

"You're free to stay here, get him upright n' settled," Bobby spoke to Dean's back. "Long as you like, to get his head all nice and proper."

"He'll be fine," Dean grunted. "We'll be back to normal in no time. Out of your hair real soon."

"Ain't nobody in my hair," Bobby said, adopting a stern tone of voice that reminded Dean of his dad, "I made some breakfast, for when the kid's up. Pancakes and orange juice, his favorite. Come down when you're ready."

Bobby left without waiting for a response, closing the door gently behind him.

Dean turned back to Sam, staring down at him silently, his fingers curling into fists in the sheets. He heard the rain pick up outside their window, and looked toward the window, away from his reason for living, wasting away in a bed. Bobby's house resided in a gray, misty wasteland, a stretch of cold nothing for as far as the eye could see.

Dean heard a noise on the bed behind him and swung his head around immediately, blinking as he watched one of Sam's hands come up and shakily rub at his eyes, his back arching as he stretched. For a tiny moment Dean could pretend everything was normal, that they were just spending a night at Bobby's nothing more. His daydream was broken when Sam twitched and jolted upright, looking all around the room before turning to Dean, his gaze wide and nervous.

"Hey... you're okay," Dean murmured, for lack of anything better to say, taking his hands off the bed to give Sam some space.

"Dean," Sam sighed, and Dean couldn't decipher the plethora of emotions heard in that one word.

"The one and only," Dean said, grinning cheekily, but his cheeks hurt with the effort of the fake smile.

"I remember you," Sam whispered. "I remember Bobby. I remember all of it."

Dean wanted to feel relieved. He wanted to feel happy that Sam wasn't aimlessly wandering anymore, wanted to confront him, ask him questions about his time in Arizona, but a sinking feeling of horror crept around his middle like a vice. How long had Sam been in the cage? How many hundreds of years of unfathomable torture?

Dean didn't want to think about the images flashing around Sam's head right now, so he grabbed Sam's wrist instead, pulling back when Sam flinched and made a plaintive noise low in his throat. "Bobby made us breakfast," he said instead, hoarsely, looking away again. "Get dressed and come downstairs, okay? I'll be waiting."

Dean got up quickly from the bed and made for the door, shame burning in his cheeks. He was weak, he was a fucking disgrace, leaving Sam alone because he couldn't handle what his brother might be going through. Here he was, taking pity on himself, when his brother was probably burning on that bed, his memories turning him to charred bones and the remains of the bright boy he used to be.

Even as he thought all this, hating himself with more confidence, he swung the door open and left Sam to his own devices.

\--

Breakfast was uneventful. Sam came down a couple minutes later, dressed in a new pair of sweats and a t-shirt, and the three of them ate in silence. No one dared start conversation, and Sam finished first, getting up and putting his dishes away before walking out the front door.

Dean was standing the moment the screen door was clacking shut, dropping his glass and moving to follow Sam. Bobby grabbed him by the forearm, keeping him still. "Leave him," Bobby said softly, staring into Dean's eyes with pleading urgency. "He didn't leave, you can see out the kitchen window. He's just sitting on the porch. I think you should just leave him be, for a moment."

"But the memories," Dean protested, feeling more agitated with each moment Bobby trapped him here. "He's gotta be goin' crazy, out in the fog on his own. I gotta help, Bobby."

"Just five minutes, okay?" Bobby told Dean, releasing his arm, "then you can go out. I think he could use a little breather, don't you? Now finish your pancakes."

There was a tense moment where Dean was going to tell Bobby to stick it where the sun shines and go pounding out after Sam, but he sighed, his shoulders sagging as he fell back into his chair. He put his head in his hands, listening to Bobby sit down in the chair across from him.

"I just... want to make him okay," Dean said, rubbing at his eyes until the moisture behind them disappeared.

"I think you might have to get used to the idea that he might never be okay again," Bobby murmured, taking a sip of coffee, "that boy has been through more than hell. People don't just come back from that, you should know."

"I'm fine," Dean barked, his jaw clenching. "Sam will be fine. It takes time, is all."

"Hey, I'm hoping for that, too," Bobby said. He cleared his throat. "But Dean... that's not the only issue here. He's part of a damn case, too. We can't just ignore the bodies in Arizona. We can't ignore the biblical signs. He was at ground zero, he has something to do with that. We have to question him and find out-"

"Go to hell," Dean growled, standing up and looking down at Bobby with a dangerous gleam in his eye. "He gets a fucking break, you hear me? We haven't even given him a god damn day. I ain't letting you prod him like fucking cattle while his brain is all mixed up. Don't you go near him, understand?"

Bobby bit his lip, and his face was crumpling only slightly, a bit of anguish peeking out from his tough facade. "Dean-"

"Don't you go near him," Dean repeated, softer, but the threat was still there. "I know you mean well. End of conversation," he added when Bobby opened his mouth to protest.

Dean walked out the door and into the rain, finding his way back to Sam.

**  
**

THE SYLLABLES, PART FIVE .

Bobby's house was at the end of a long, dirt drive-- rusted cars and pines obscured the main road from view, and the smothering fog drowned out any noise besides the persistent patter of rain. Thunder rumbled off in the distance, just an echo of a larger storm. Sam was trying to keep his mind as blank as his surroundings, concentrating on the chirp of a lone bird or the ripples of a puddle in the gravel by his feet.

He knew he would have to face his past sooner or later.

He also knew he wouldn't make it back from that. Not completely.

The screen door screamed open behind him, and heavy footfalls made the floorboards creak until Dean dropped onto the steps beside him, knees cracking as he shifted and settled, wrapping his arms around his legs to mimic Sam's position. Dean didn't speak, and Sam glanced at his profile, staring out over the driveway. Dean looked a little older than he had in that last moment Sam had seen him before he’d fallen. The crows feet around his eyes were a little more defined; the pain in his eyes a little more solid. He must've been working in the sun recently-- the freckles dappling his face were more contrasted against his cheeks than usual. Sam decided it was a good look on him.

Sam didn't know what he'd done, but suddenly Dean was frowning, rolling his shoulders and looking around twitchily, coughing to cover up some imagined awkward silence. He stood, and Sam craned his neck to stare questioningly up at him. Dean shoved his hands in his pockets and coughed again. "Look, I'm getting cold, you should probably come inside soon before you get sick..."

"Stay," Sam said quietly, surprised he'd spoken at all. "I-- please stay."

He lowered his face back to the sodden porch, feeling the heat rise in his face. Dean's legs were still next to him, unmoving. He waited, hearing a plane pass them by somewhere above the low-hanging clouds. Finally Dean's legs moved, back down the steps instead of into the house.

"I have to let myself remember, even if it hurts me," Sam spoke after several minutes of companionable silence. "I heard Bobby yelling at you about Arizona. I... I have to keep remembering. It's gonna happen whether I want it to or not, and I want you to be here when it does."

"I'm sorry about earlier. I didn't mean to bolt on you, I... I guess I don't want you to face this."

"What happened in Arizona?" Sam asked.

"You really don't want me to jog your memory." Dean laughed bitterly, picking up a small stone and hurling it out toward the junkyard.

Sam heard it land somewhere with a metal tink. "I know I don't, but you have to anyway."

Dean breathed in with a long and shuddery noise. "When you were gone, I went to Ben and Lisa like you told me to. But I couldn't deal. When Bobby heard from Lisa that I'd bolted, he was pissed at first, but after that... he told me there was hunt in Arizona, to go and check it out. The bodies were piling up across small towns, riutalistic kinda things. Bloodied stained glass. Burnt faces. Bible passages. The whole shebang."

"Where was the first murder?" Sam asked, trying to be brave, but his voice cracked in half as he spoke.

"By the side of some back road in Camp Verde. He was a trucker, John Abrams. Pretty bloody, not the usual kinda shit a small town like that sees." A pause. "I really don't wanna tell you about this."

"Because you're afraid I did it?" Sam croaked, and his entire body was burning up, his heart leaping right up into his throat and making it hard to breathe. The rain no longer soothed him-- it was too loud. The fog was closing in on him.

"Because you're gonna remember terrible things that weren't your fault."

A laugh of disbelief bubbled its way out of Sam's throat. "I stabbed his wrists, clean through," he choked out, gripping the steps even as splinters pushed into the tips of his fingers, "they bled so much. All over the truck. He was screaming at first but when I slit his throat it came out more like a watery noise."

He didn't dare look at Dean's face.

"It was stigmata. I cut his forehead, too, pretty much scalped him. He was still alive when the blood started pouring into his eyes. It was... significant, you know? Part of my mission. Give stigmata to a man with the name of a saint. I was proving I was chosen... to save us. But it was just Lucifer, I know that now. It was him, the whole time."

There was a warm hand rubbing deep circles into his back, he didn't know when it had gotten there. A shiver wracked its way through his body and rattled his bones. He sniffed, trying to dispel the tears that were threatening to fall.

He looked up, blinking, not seeing the clouds, not seeing the sky. He was seeing memories, seeping thickly out of his brain, and each was worse than the last. "Oh, god he--" Sam swallowed, shaking his head roughly. He shook it again, like a dog, trying to shake away the feeling of warm blood pouring across his lap. "he made me kill... so many people. I don't even know why. He told me I was going to save the world, but I know it was a trick. What was he trying to do? Dean-"

Sam turned to him, gasping, blood leached from his face and eyes open wide and red. "Why am I here? How did I get out?"

Dean was blinking furiously, looking down at Sam's hands instead of up at his face. He was picking at a thread on the side of his jeans. His jaw ticked. "I dunno, Sammy."

"What if..." Sam closed his eyes and bit his lip, shivering harder. "What if I have to go back? What if I'm not real?"

"Hey. Hey!" Dean barked at him, taking his shoulders and forcing Sam to turn toward him. "You're real, okay? I did all the tests. One hundred percent pure human Sammy, and nothing else. I don't know why you're back, but if you feel strong enough to let Cas near you, he could probably tell, huh? He'd help. He's not going to hurt you."

"You didn't answer the second question," Sam whimpered. "What if I have to go back? I-- I can't can't go back, Dean. Please."

"You won't," Dean practically growled, squeezing Sam's shoulder. "Not on my watch, god damn it. Not ever again. Understand?"

Sam nodded, looking at the anger and the confidence in Dean's green eyes and feeling a little bit stronger. "You can... you can call Cas. Just not right now, okay? I want a moment."

"You got it, little brother," Dean said, leaning back against the steps. He watched the rain trickle across the hood of his Impala, parked across from where they sat.

"Dean..." Sam could barely speak. He could barely see, barely think about anything other than the screaming people in the church, the hooked blade in his hands separating limbs from bodies. "I hurt so many people. How can you stand to look at me?"

"It wasn't your fault," Dean whispered back. The hands left his shoulders and one looped around his neck instead, drawing him closer to his brother until they were touching in a warm line down their bodies.

"How many more times are you gonna have to say that?" Sam hissed, unable to stop a tear from making its way down his cheek. "How many more times am I going to hurt people?"

"How many times am I gonna have to tell you none of this is your fault?" Dean countered, tugging his arm again and forcing Sam to rest his head on his shoulder. "You've been through too much shit, enough for a billion lifetimes, and you didn't deserve any of it. You were scared, okay? Just trying to be good. Just trying to save the world. And look what that got you, Sam. Just because the world is a cruel piece of shit doesn't mean you're a monster." Dean breathed out slowly, and the arm curled loosely around Sam's shoulders went up to his hairline, running through strands of hair and tucking them behind his ears. "This time we're gonna be okay, though. I'll make sure of that."

"I'm gonna keep remembering," Sam croaked, "I've only seen a few things, but it's bad. I'll go insane."

"Then I'll be there to pick up the pieces," Dean replied stubbornly, slipping his hand down to Sam's waist and keeping him close, drawing warmth from each other as the day grew colder. The rain picked up, trees bending sideways and the windchime hanging from the eaves began clattering wildly. It took Dean a moment to realize Sam was crying into his shoulder-- the noise of rain hitting hundreds of cars had drowned out the tiny, juddering sobs. Once he realized Sam's shakes had turned into cries he pressed Sam even further against his body, turning his head and placing his lips against Sam's forehead, closing his eyes.

"Hey, hey, shh," he soothed, his own breaths becoming weak and labored, "it's okay, you're okay. We're gonna patch you up just fine, Arizona will be out of your head in no time."

"It's not just that," Sam moaned, his voice muffled by Dean's jacket. "It's something else."

Dean felt his blood go cold, felt that dark, heavy weight settle further inside him, one he'd felt so often in his life. He didn't know what to expect, didn't know what Sam was going to say, so he waited in silence, letting the rain sounds wash over him as he listened to Sam's pained breaths puff against his neck.

Without warning, Sam was gone from his side, standing out in the rain. His hair quickly went from brown to black, plastered against his head, his entire body getting soaked in seconds.

Dean stood, making to go out and grab Sam, but Sam held up a hand. His eyes were shining, the tear tracks lost among the wetness on his skin, and he was biting his lip again, a dot of blood appearing against his skin when he bit down too hard. "I thought he was you. That's why I trusted him," Sam said, barely audible over the rain.

Dean didn't move, didn't say anything. He knew there was more to it than that. Sam wasn't done talking, and Dean might never hear what burden Sam carried if he spoke up now.

"I loved him," Sam said, smiling, but it was twisted, painful. Dean knew he'd worn the same smile for Sam when he'd seen the hellhounds arrive. "I let him kiss me and I let him touch me because I thought he was you."

Dean was glued to the steps as Sam laughed once, a sad noise, and pushed past him, going back into the house and slamming the door behind him. Dean stared uncomprehendingly at the spot where Sam had stood and bared his soul.

Inside, Sam scrubbed a hand down his face. He was dripping water all over the floor. He kicked off his boots and shrugged out of his jacket, padding his way up the steps and past a questioning Bobby. He slipped out of the rest of his clothes once he was in the safety of his room, careful not to look down at his body. A shower would help, would wash away some of the grime and dirt that covered him.

His skin tingled when he thought about what he'd done, and all he wanted to do was burn himself away to nothing. Dean was wrong. The deaths were his fault. He didn't have to listen to Lucifer. He didn't have to fucking go to bed with him, either.

He was disgusting.

Stumbling into the bathroom, he barely made it to the toilet before he was puking up his breakfast, gripping the porcelain and heaving, gasping like someone had clawed up his throat when nothing more would come up. He was sweating, and shaking, and fucking freezing and wet, god damn it, and he could feel Lucifer's hands digging into his waist, then going lower, and he couldn't stop them.

He was crying before he could try and stop, and it was worse than last time, the sobs causing spikes of pain to shoot through his wrecked throat. He knew the pitiful sounds he was making could probably be heard all throughout the house, but he couldn't get himself to stop, instead sliding to the floor next to the toilet and just letting go, tears falling into his mouth and down his chin.

It was like he'd broken down some sort of wall, because then Lucifer was real, and he looked so different from Dean, so appalling, Sam was horrified he'd ever believed his lies in the first place.

"What are you still doing here, Sammy baby?" Lucifer asked him, grinning like the fucking cheshire cat and stroking a hand down Sam’s side and then lower, brushing at the wiry hairs above his cock. "Come back to me, come back to Arizona, we're not done yet."

Sam sniffled and shook his head wildly, squeezing his eyes shut tight. "No, I won't come with you. I know you're not real. Just leave me alone," he wheezed, the tiles cold against his back and the devil at his front, feeling miserable.

Lucifer gripped him then, but not for pleasure, squeezing him tightly and pinching his thighs with his other hand, forcing his legs open, dragging them apart. "I'll just have to show you how real I am, won't I?" Lucifer laughed, crawling closer, "then you'll remember who you really belong to, you little slut. Then we can leave this place and finish working on those pesky seals, mmm. I'm going to split you right in half, you stupid boy."

Sam started screaming. Lucifer's skin was so cold, and he was naked too, covered in burns and rotted flesh. There was nowhere to run, and Sam whimpered, pressing himself into a little ball in the corner of the bathroom, drawing his knees up to his chest and wrapping his arms around them. "Leave m-me alone," he stuttered, hyperventilating. "Leave me alone!"

Lucifer just laughed, as if Sam was some misbehaving little kid and he was about to get a spanking. "Not a chance in hell, darling," he said, grabbing at Sam's leg and slicing it open with his nail, pressing his finger deep into the gash and wriggling it around.

Sam screamed again, and it fucking hurt but he couldn't stop, couldn't stop crying and slamming himself back against the wall, making the most pathetic noises as he tried to get Lucifer to disappear, tried to stop the hallucination from feeling so damn real.  

Lucifer was taking his time, licking slowly and suggestively at Sam's blood covering his fingers. He winked at Sam, amused by the way Sam would shuffle back and hit his head against the wall over and over again.

"Please," Sam croaked, his eyes filling with tears, "please, please, please don't, please."

"How well did that work out for you last time?" Lucifer snorted, his tone dry, and like he'd flicked a switch Sam was seized with more memories, each of them just like this, each of them ending with Lucifer inside him, tearing him apart, still laughing.

Sam couldn't breathe, gasping jaggedly, because no, no, no, he couldn't be in hell, he had gotten out, hadn't he? But... the more he thought about it, the less sense his escape made, the more unrealistic it sounded. And this scene was so damn familiar, he'd been through it before, in hell. He was still in hell.

He mewled and sagged a little, closing his eyes again. "No," he moaned, "you can't hurt me, it's not real, please,"

The hand went back to his thigh, shoving past the arms encircling his legs until it was right next to his cock. Lucifer's other hand pried Sam's arms away easily, shoving him until he was lying on his back on the floor. Sam felt all of it, trembling crazily, but refused to look, afraid that would make it real.

The hands disappeared without warning and then one was on his shoulder, lightly, and he flinched, trying to scoot back even though it was useless. He whimpered again, curling into a ball facing away from Lucifer and wheezing.

"Sammy, oh god, please," Lucifer said, but he sounded different. His voice was all wrong, but more than that, he sounded worried, concerned. Genuine.

Still, Sam wouldn't be tricked again. He felt so stupid for believing he'd gotten out, Lucifer was right. He was a fucking idiot and deserved the torment. But the hand didn't move back, there was no dick forcing its way inside him, only a light squeeze to his shoulder and a shaken voice he decided he should listen to.

"It's... it's just me, Sammy, can you hear me? He's not here. Lucifer's not here. You're safe. Can you get up for me, little brother? Are you listening. Open your eyes, c'mon. It's just me, I swear, I promise never to hurt you. Oh, fuck. No. Sammy, please."

Sam opened one eye, giving in to the tiny flicker of hope inside him. The face above him was absolutely wrecked, streaked with tears and a wobbling bottom lip. More than that, the face was different, and recognition clicked-- Dean. His older brother. He sighed in relief before quickly tensing up, eying Dean with caution. "You're not real," he whispered hoarsely, "get away from me."

"Sammy, please," Dean begged, his voice cracking over every single syllable and his throat sounding thick and clogged. "Please, you're hurt, just get up, okay? Lemme look at you. You're safe, you gotta believe me."

Hurt? Sam's head echoed that statement in confusion. He risked a small peek down at himself, and saw his own fingernails caked in blood. His thigh was steadily bleeding-- he must've scratched at a vein. He looked back and forth between his hands and his thighs, and looked past Dean to see an empty bathroom. No devils. Blinking owlishly, he sat up, gasping as a tendril of fiery pain shot up his leg. Dean scooted closer, but kept his hands off of Sam, like he was afraid to hurt him.

The thought made Sam relax slightly, and his brain was blessedly blank for the moment. Lucid. Before, with Lucifer... it had been a hallucination. He wasn't back. Cas would tell him how he'd gotten out, and it would make perfect sense. Sam breathed in and out carefully, trying to slow his heart rate. He could do this.

A hand on his leg made him start but it was just Dean, immediately murmuring apologies and taking his hand away, even as his eyes were glued to the wound on Sam's leg.

Another part of Sam's brain reminded him that he was completely naked, and a bloody, teary mess as well. He blushed, looking down at the grout between the floor tiles. Dean got up, but he didn't leave-- he pulled a medical kit out of the cabinet instead, dropping it to the floor beside Sam and digging through its contents. He found a pack of butterfly bandages, and took them out, alongside a bottle of some sort of healing cream.

"Why are you even doing this?" Sam spat, his lips curling into a snarl, aimed at himself. "I'm  fucked up. You heard what I said out there, I'm disgusting. You should've just left me to rot, I deserve it."

Dean shook his head, and he didn't look pissed, or in agreement, he just looked... sad. Like Sam was a lonely puppy at a pound. "You've got it all wrong, kiddo," he said softly, his eyes softening as he carefully took Sam's leg in his hands, clearing away the blood with a washcloth. "Like I said before you-- I'm not gonna leave you. Ever. I'm gonna fix up your leg and if you can stand you're gonna take a shower, okay? Don't you worry about nothin'."

Sam stayed silent, more out of confusion than acceptance. Dean should be slapping him, curling his hands around his throat, telling him what a monster he was, but instead he looked like he still loved Sam, acted like he still cared about him. He watched as Dean carefully wiped away the blood, being as gentle as possible with his ministrations. He started applying the butterfly bandages, covering up the long gash on Sam's inner thigh. When he was done, he leaned back on his haunches, throwing away the bandage packaging and packing up the med kit.

He looked up at Sam, who immediately looked away. "Can you stand?" Dean asked him, after a pause.

Sam pushed up off the ground onto his knees before standing up on his own, wavering slightly.

"Does that hurt? Do you wanna sit down?" Dean asked him immediately, worry seeping through his tone as he crept into Sam's space, waiting to catch him.

"No, no, I'm..." Sam batted away Dean's outstretched hands. "The leg hurts a little, but I'm fine."

"I swear," he added, after Dean narrowed his eyes at him. Dean stepped away, nodding. He didn't seem at all uncomfortable that Sam was naked, even after his little admission earlier, and for the moment, Sam was grateful. He was too exhausted to deal with emotions of any sort right now, good or bad.

"Shower," Dean ordered gruffly, "I'll be waiting outside, just call if you need anything."

Sam didn't respond, nodding instead, gaze bolted to the ground. Dean closed the door as he left, leaving Sam alone with himself.

He knew he should feel indignant at Dean's protectiveness, insist he wasn't a child, but he enjoyed the feeling of someone being right there, trying to make him happy. Trying to make him sane. Dean didn't run away or hit him when he'd confessed his feelings in a roundabout way, and he didn't leave when Sam was rocking back and forth naked on a bathroom floor. That... that said something. Sam didn't know exactly what, but he knew Dean wouldn't go back on his promise. He'd come when Sam called.

Sighing, Sam limped over to the shower and got in, setting it to a burning temperature to get all the icy handprints off body and out of his veins.

**  
**

THE SYLLABLES, PART SIX .

Dean slumped down onto his bed, covering his face with his hands. The rain had stopped sometime during Sam's episode, leaving just a dreary quietness all around Bobby’s house. He knew Bobby was probably worried sick over the screams and following silence, but gave him props for not intruding on them. He must've taken Dean's threats to heart, and while Dean was guilty he said them in the first place, he wasn't going to take them back. He meant every word he'd said.

He listened to the shower turning on, the shower curtain being dragged closed. He shifted until he was lying back on the bed, staring up at the ceiling. Every time he tried to clear his head, his mind went back to what Sam had told him out in the rain. About Lucifer. But more than that, about how he felt about Dean.

How he felt for Dean would be a more apt description.

Sam was in love with him, and hated himself for it.

Dean couldn't get himself to feel surprised. He went through the emotions a normal older brother would feel at that admission: hatred, anger, confusion, surprise, a sense of failure. He felt none of it. He still cared for Sam.

But did he love him back?

The answer was obvious when the shower squeaked off and Sam shuffled in, a towel around his waist and his hair dripping onto his shoulders. He looked nervous, still gaunt and thin, but better, more color in his face.

Dean did love him. There was no question. The way he'd felt when Sam was in hell, the months trying to bring Lucifer back just so he could see Sam... there was no way he couldn't love his brother. He wondered whether he felt it romantically, though, or sexually, as Sam seemed to. All he knew that Sam was hurting badly by the admission, but even more by the way he'd let Lucifer be with him, even if it was just a very detailed hallucination.

Sam averted his gaze when their eyes met, sorting through his backpack and pulling out boxers, sweats, and a t-shirt. Dean turned his head away so he was looking out the window on the other side of the room to give Sam some privacy. He heard the shifting of clothes and then nothing, and turned his head back to quirk an eyebrow at his brother.

"Do you want me to leave?" Sam asked softly, shifting awkwardly at the foot of Dean's bed.

"What? No." Dean scoffed, then jerked his head toward space next to him. "C'mere."

Sam eyed the bed as if it were going to bite him, then turned to Dean, his face seeming to ask, _is this a trap?_

Dean smiled in what he hoped looked encouraging and compassionate. "Please?"

Sam slunk over, making his way around the bed to sit on the other side, his back to Dean, tense and silent.

Dean scoffed again, patting the bed. "I promise I will not chop your arm off or something," he tried, attempting to give them at least one lighthearted moment since they'd reunited.

After several beats, Sam finally acquiesced, hesitantly lying back on the bed beside Dean. His hands were folded over his chest, and he shifted several times, trying his best not to touch Dean. He looked ridiculously uncomfortable.

Dean frowned, turning onto his side to face Sam. "Hey, whatever you're thinking, stop it." he said sternly. "I don't hate you, I never will. I just want you to forget for a second, okay? I know you're hurting, and I think I can help. It's like your nightmares when you were little, do you remember? You would only fall back asleep with my arms around you."

Sam turned to face Dean. "I'm sorry," he muttered, turning his eyes down. "I'm sorry for putting you through all this."

"What about yourself?" Dean asked. "You've been through a hell of a lot more than I have. Just... relax, okay? Please? You're fine, I swear."

Sam gave him a look like he was trying to decipher if Dean was lying or not. After searching Dean's eyes for a moment, he appeared satisfied, and sighed, snuggling closer until he was burying his head in Dean's chest and breathing in the scent of him deeply. He wrapped an arm around Dean's waist and felt Dean do the same.

"That's better," Dean whispered, his voice thick with emotion, and he squeezed Sam tightly against his body. "You're safe with me, you know that right?"

Sam nodded against his chest, not trusting his voice. Dean's arm reached up to comb through his hair, and Sam finally let all his guards down, sagging at how good Dean's fingers felt at his scalp. Dean's fingers stopped, roaming down his arm, causing him to shiver.

"Stop," Sam hissed, grabbing Dean's arm and taking it away. He pulled back, propping himself and looking down at Dean. "Why are you doing this if... if you know how I feel? I don't get it. Please, just tell me why."

Dean sat up as Sam's tone got increasingly more upset, and grabbed his jaw gently, forcing Sam to meet his eyes. "Sam. Hey, breathe, okay? Are you alright? Are any memories coming back right now?"

Sam shook his head.

"Any hallucinations, then? Is Lucifer here?"

Another shake.

Dean hummed in approval. "Good. Then I need you to stay with me, and not to freak out, okay? You're with me, it's around twelve in the afternoon, and no one else matters."

Sam blinked, eyes narrowing in suspicion. "Dean--"

"Do you trust me?" Dean interrupted, putting his hand back on Sam's waist.

Sam nodded immediately, giving Dean the courage he was looking for. "Okay," he breathed, getting nervous all over again, and put a hand on Sam's cheek. He leaned in slowly, just slow enough for Sam to process what he was doing, watching Sam's eyes widen right before he closed his own and connected his lips with Sam's.

He kissed him softly, chastely, as if they were in high school and they were each other's first kiss. He pressed his lips against Sam's for a few more seconds when Sam didn't yank his head backward or freak out.

When he finally broke them apart, he looked in Sam's eyes for a reaction. "Even if I didn't feel the same way about you," he said slowly, making sure Sam soaked in every word, "I would never hate you for something like that. I'd love you just the same."

Sam smiled, a real, dimpled smile, the first since he'd gotten out and it was the most beautiful thing Dean had ever seen. He couldn't help but smiling back, a wide grin splitting his face, and they just looked at each other. Dean wanted to stay like that forever, feeling Sam's warmth and looking at his gorgeous face, but Sam was kissing him again, which was just as good. Better, even. He kissed him back strongly, urging Sam's lips apart and sucking on Sam's bottom lip, his hand reaching up to cup Sam's face. He tried to translate all his emotions into the kiss, pour them all into Sam's mouth, and Sam seemed to understand, leaning forward and huffing as they broke apart for air before immediately kissing again.

When Dean gently pushed them away, Sam didn't look scared, only trusting, waiting patiently for Dean to speak.

"We will get through this in one piece, Sammy. We will."

For the first time, Sam was inclined to agree with him.

**  
**

BOOK THREE: THE HEARTLINES

**  
**

THE SYLLABLES ALL TOGETHER (THE WORDS), PART ONE (ONE HOUR LATER) .

Sam was avoiding Dean.

He felt guilty doing it, but he just couldn't get himself to stop, to go back into the house where his brother was currently doing god knows what. Regretting the kiss? Telling Bobby, laughing? Being torn apart by Lucifer?

He didn't want to face his actions from after his shower. He didn't want to face Cas, either, a small part of him still terrified of the angel even though he knew he was his friend. He was giving himself an interlude, a tiny moment of respite before the blades would be back, the chains. The sounds of Dean screaming.

Sam shook his head viciously, like a wet dog. Lucifer wasn't real. Dean was safe-- from him, at least. From his brother, as well. Sam was out past the junkyard, beyond the piles of half-ruined cars. Where they ended, a field began, filled with tall grasses that made it sound like it was raining every time the wind passed through. The hills sloped gently, up and down, and around half a mile out was a huge Oak tree, branches and leaves fanning out to create a tiny little shaded oasis. The ground fell steeply a couple yards ahead of the tree, giving way to a forest. A few heavily rusted cars sat down below, trees and vines poking out of windows and windshields.

Sam was huddled beneath the tree, back to the bark with his knees drawn up in front of him. He sighed with the leaves when another gust of stormy wind blew. He tryiedto match his breathing with the land around him. He tried to tune out his own head, empty his thoughts of worry and paranoia.

He was fine.

He mouthed the words, over and over again, his fingers twitching along the laces of his shoes. Nothing could hurt him here.

This place had been his personal sanctuary ever since he'd found it in the fifth grade, playing hide-and-seek with Dean. Dean had never found him, and he'd stayed put, heart beating wildly with excitement from the prospects of outsmarting his brother. He stayed long after the sun had set, coming out only when he heard his father, Bobby, and Dean all shouting for him. His dad had been pissed, but Dean didn't say anything, didn't yell, just threw his arms around Sam and held him there until John was done with his lecture.

Sam kept going back, for years after that, every time he was alone. It felt comforting to lean against the tree, like he was grounded too, his own roots spreading thickly through the soil beneath him.

In all honestly, Dean probably knew about the hiding spot. He didn't say anything about it because he knew it was special to Sam, knew he should let him have this one thing. That was Sam's theory, anyway. If Dean really wanted to find him, he could. He could hear Dean's voice telling Bobby, _"he's underneath the tree out back"._

The idea kept him there for well over an hour. He was given his own space, but he wasn't missing. He hadn't run away. They knew where he was.

When the clouds grew thicker again and the air smelled of rain, he got back up, stretching and wiggling his toes inside his boots. He felt strangely childlike, his memories locked away from himself. His own childhood was thousands of years ago, worn away to a couple memories at best. The only way he could think of it without going insane was the idea he'd been reborn. He'd been through hell, yes. He'd died.

And here he was, new and empty. Under the tree out back.

He turned and left without gazing behind himself. He picked his way back through the tall stalks of grass, his feet hitting packed dirt and winding him through the maze of vehicles, practically on autopilot.

As he got closer to Bobby's house, he could smell something cooking, something familiar, but couldn't place exactly what. Dean was on the porch, nursing a beer. His features came into focus as Sam loped closer. Dean was watching him casually, trying to school his features, but the crease of his brow gave his worry away.

"Having fun?" Dean asked drily, but Sam knew the real message underlying his words: _anything bad happen? Any hallucinations?_

"I went cloudgazing," Sam told him, standing over him and rocking back on his heels with his hands shoved into his pockets.

"Cloudgazing?" Dean repeated, giving him an odd look before taking a swig of his drink.

"Yeah, I just-- needed a moment. So I was looking at the clouds, trying to make pictures," Sam explained, feeling steadily more embarrassed the more he rambled, looking away.

"Okay, kiddo," Dean said, shaking his head. He stood up, his knees cracking as he did so. "Bobby's making dinner. Cas'll be here soon. Want to come inside?"

Sam wanted to say no, desperately so. He didn't want to talk about hell or his feelings or angels anymore. He didn't want any of it, wanted Oak trees and hills and nothing more. But he nodded, for Dean's sake, and followed him into the house, inhaling the fumes coming out of the kitchen.

He sat at the table next to Dean, uncomfortably aware of how close their bodies were, about how he could count Dean's freckles if he really wanted to. Bobby sat across from them, shoving plates of pasta toward them with a meaningful look.

Sam knew what Bobby was trying to do-- get some meat on his bones or something. Sam remembered being bigger, having a more commanding presence in rooms, being wider. He didn't want that anymore. He liked how slim he was, when he could tolerate looking at himself. His protruding ribs weren't important. The way he could slip in and out of rooms was. The way his hunched back made him eye-to-eye with Dean. He wanted to keep that.

He and Dean didn't speak as they ate, but he supposed it was less awkward than if they did, dancing around the subject of what happened earlier. Sam briefly imagined what would happen if Bobby found out they'd kissed. He'd probably kick them out. Which is why it was a good thing Dean probably thought it was a mistake, wouldn't take it farther.

Sam was stuck. He didn't want Dean to regret it, but... he didn't want Dean to want more, either. He didn't want to see that hungry, devouring look in Dean's eyes, didn't want to feel Dean's hands bruising his wrists as he pinned Sam to the bed and took him. Lucifer had mocked his feelings, had worn Dean's face, whispered horrible things in his ear.

Sam shivered bodily, his fork clattering onto the plate, drawing all attention to him.

"Sammy?" Dean asked, past a full mouth, concern drawing his brows together.

"I'm f-f-f-fine," Sam said, another shudder wracking through his body, and he shook his head roughly like he had out under the Oak tree.

He could imagine Dean's face morphing so easily, wanting Sam naked and helpless, transforming so swiftly from Sam's savior to a monster. Sam could feel his body continuing to waver like a brittle leaf in the wind, but he couldn't stop it. Dean reached out to touch his shoulder and he twitched away from the touch, scooting his chair away and blinking quickly. "I said I'm f-f-fine," he repeated, his voice slightly stronger. "Let's just-- eat, please? And then talk to C-Cas?"

A silence enveloped the room the moment Sam stopped talking. He wanted to scream at the obvious looks Bobby and Dean were trading, as if they thought he was too fragile to talk to Cas. They thought they could make his decisions for him.

Sam was angry at himself for how much he agreed with them.

"If you're sure," Dean said eventually, setting his own fork down and gazing at Sam, expression neutral.

Sam sat up straighter, taking slow breaths in and out of his nose. "I am," he said, proud of the clearness of his voice, "I just want to get it over with. I want to know what's wrong with me."

"Nothing's wrong with you, son," Bobby spoke for the first time, sending a slightly strained smile Sam's way.

Sam couldn't help but scoff, picking up his fork again and concentrating on his food instead of his family. After a brief pause, he heard the two of them do the same, and relaxed fractionally, like a man who'd been told he had two days left to live, not one.

The rest of the evening was a blur, and soon the three of them were standing in the study, hovering around each other with little coughs and sideways looks. The silence weighed heavily, a blanket over them, worse than how the dinner table had been. Sam could tell Dean was nervous too, afraid for him. He was probably afraid to hear the truth from Cas, didn't want to hear the traitorous report of Sam's soul. Sam couldn't get a read on Bobby, who was turned away, reorganizing books on his shelves.

"Well," Dean grinned, clapping his hands together once, "let's get this show on the road, huh?"

Bobby heaved a sigh, turning to fall against his desk, leaning heavily against it. "Start praying, boy," he barked.

Sam swallowed reflexively, his eyes flicking to Dean's just as Dean did the same, a worried question in his gaze.

Sam gave him a nearly imperceptible nod, and Dean's jaw ticked, but he nodded back. "Cas, you feathery bastard," he breathed out, eyes closing tightly, "get your ass over to Bobby's. Sam's ready to see you. But be carefu-"

A telltale fluttering noise and the papers that coasted from the desk to the floor alerted them to Cas's presence. He was standing in the entryway between the kitchen and the study, eyeing Sam like a zookeeper with a testy lion. "I won't hurt you," he said slowly, holding his hands out. "I'm your friend, Sam."

Sam could feel all the eyes in the room burning through him, waiting for his reaction, good or bad. He nodded, his hair falling in front of his face with his jerky, agitated movements. "I know," he gasped, trying to get the air into his lungs and having too much trouble. "Just- just give me a minute."

Cas nodded, lips pursed and face pulled downward into a rather constipated look. He stayed put, giving Sam his room.

Sam heard Dean shuffle closer, and then there was an arm around his shoulders, a comforting scent surrounding him. He breathed it in, relaxing into Dean's arms, letting the hand rubbing slowly up and down his arm be his life raft. "Okay," Sam swallowed, "get over here, do your magic or whatever."

Cas looked pained. "It's going to hurt," he warned.

The arm around Sam tightened. "What the hell? Why?" Dean demanded, his voice going rough with familiar protectiveness.

Cas sighed, his hands clenching and unclenching at his sides. "I have to touch his soul. Physically. Which means my hand has to be... inside him. There is a way to do it angelically, but it is painful. There will be no lasting damage, of course," he added hastily, looking back and forth between the brothers.

"Whatever," Sam blurted before Dean could argue. "Can I sit down? Let's get this over with."

"Sammy..." Dean said, but Sam was already shrugging out of his arms and making his way to the couch, flopping down on it and curling the edges of a blanket into a ball with his fists.

Cas walked over, making a wide arc around Dean's furious glare before carefully sitting down next to Sam, trying his best not to trigger any emotions from within him. He undid his belt and Sam jolted in surprise, scooting back and pressing himself into the cushions of the couch. "I didn't think-- inside meant like that," he gasped out in stuttering breaths, blood rushing in his ears and going lightheaded with bright fear as he looked at Cas. "Please, I-- not again. Please. Please."

"Sam. Sam, it's okay," Cas assured him, quickly. "I thought you might want something to bite down on, so you don't hurt your tongue. That's all this is, I promise you."

Sam hadn't noticed Dean had come closer, but he was standing over Sam with red glassy eyes. "It's okay," Sam told him in a small voice, eyes big and childlike. "I'm better now, I'm better."

"Okay," Dean croaked, taking a step back but never taking his eyes from Sam.

Sam took the belt from Cas with shaking fingers. He wrapped it around his fist before biting down on a section of it and closing his eyes, wishing he could just disappear into the pillows and never come out again.

"Just breathe through it, Sam," Cas soothed, a hand briefly finding its way to Sam's hair before retracting. Before Sam could respond, a blooming pain spread out from his heart and throughout his lungs and chest, making it impossible to breathe.  He grunted, biting down on the belt and gasping as he felt Cas touch at something in his very center, something raw and open. He shook, could feel the vibrations in his throat, knew he was probably whimpering insensibly. The pain became a wide burn, pumping through his veins and taking away his pride, stripping him away. The moment he knew he couldn't take it anymore, the feeling receded, the tide shrinking from the shore. He gasped, dropping the belt on the floor and  bringing his legs onto the couch, burrowing downward until he was curled in a tight ball. He drew the blanket over himself and all the way over his head, burning with shame and embarrassment. He knew he was acting like a toddler, but Cas had pushed at something he couldn't bear to lose again.

He was still whimpering, rocking back and forth on the couch. He heard words quietly hissed, an exchange being made, before a slight breeze stirred the blanket and he knew Cas was gone. Even so, the fear didn't abate. The feeling in his core didn't become any less sickening, even as Dean pressed himself onto the couch, telling Bobby to get the fuck out.

Dean's arm wrapped around him and a finger found his chin, pushing it up. He dared open his eyes, and was met with Dean's, less than a foot away. Dean was under the blanket with him, and they were pressed flush against each other so Dean wouldn't fall off the couch. Dean was warm, the blanket holding their heat in, but it wasn't a bad feeling. It was safer than the feelings that had accompanied Cas's breach of his soul, and he allowed a shuddery breath to escape. He twitched a weak smile at Dean, and Dean smiled back, fond and filled to the brim with soft affection and love.

The smile fell from Sam's face. "What Cas found-"

"Doesn't matter right now," Dean spoke in a hushed, low murmur, his wide eyes searching Sam's. "We can talk about it later, okay? When your head's in the right place."

Sam bit his lip. "What if it never is?" he whispered back, trying his best to keep his voice from wavering.

The arm around him shifted until his palm was flat against Sam's side, rubbing up and down his flank and calming Sam down. "It will be, okay? Takes time. Hell don't budge easy."

Sam nodded, satisfied, the crazy thrum in his head gone. He wasn't quite convinced, was preparing to come to terms with being one step behind everyone else for the rest of his life. But Dean didn't have to know that.

He lowered his head so Dean couldn't see his expression and snuggled his way further into Dean's arms, pressing his face into the crook of Dean's neck. He felt Dean sigh, and then Dean's arms were more secure in him. Dean shifted, shuffling backwards a bit, trying to get comfortable. Then, a light kiss was pressed to Sam's forehead.

Sam sagged against his brother, all of his energy leaving him in a wash.

"Sleep," Dean murmured against Sam's hair, closing his eyes, "it'll all be better when you wake up."

**  
**

THE WORDS, PART TWO .

When Sam's breathing evened out and he settled against Dean, Dean opened his eyes again. He took the blanket from over their heads and tugged it down to their shoulders. Cas and Bobby were gone.

It was that time of day where the light faded in mere minutes, just after twilight. The sunset was a dying orange, stretched out weakly on the floorboards in thin little lines. Dean stared unseeingly at the room around him as the colors steadily leached out of everything around him. The floor above him creaked, and a door shut before silence overtook the room again, not even the lullaby of a nearby highway to lull him to sleep.

He swallowed, his hand instinctively going up to Sam's hair and combing slowly through it. Sam sighed, curling a little closer to Dean in his sleep. His movements seemed so innocent, so childish, like all those times ages ago that Sam had crawled into Dean's bed after a nightmare. Yet Dean couldn't get himself to smile, to savor the moment of closeness for what it was.

He knew Sam had been avoiding him after their kiss, disappearing to his little hideaway that Dean only knew the vague location of. When Sam came back, going practically feral with panic at Castiel's touch, Dean had gotten another glimpse of how well and truly Sam wasn't there with him.

He blinked back little pins of tears at the thought, guilt flooding him immediately. Sam wasn't gone. Sam was right here with him, pressed up against him. Heart beating, slowly breathing. Alive.

And more importantly, out of hell.

He couldn't push away the thoughts that he was somehow manipulating Sam, coercing him. He knew about what had happened to Sam in hell, and even after, down in ninety degree weather with a head only screwed halfway on. Would kissing him make him feel better, more grounded, or do the exact opposite? Could he even trust Sam's judgement, trust it to work out instead of crumbling to pieces?

The feeling he hated the most was how badly he wanted to Sam.

It was like the floodgates had been opened, a dam labeled "repressed feelings" busted wide open. He noticed Sam's moles, polka-dotting Sam's face, the cupid's bow shape of Sam's lips. Sam's voice was a salve for his soul, and every moment he didn't hear its low cadence he craved it something fierce.

Stilling his fingers in Sam's hair and drawing them back down to press flat against Sam's back, Dean made a silent promise to let Sam call the shots and make the decisions.

He felt it was the least he could do after everything had been stripped away from his brother, like water on stone.

\--

He woke with a start to the sound of knocking on the wall, cracking his eyes open to find the source of the intrusion.

Bobby was peeking around the corner of the entryway, a plate of toast in hand. "You boys good in here?" he asked, his eyes moving down to Sam.

Dean could only manage a grunt, still half asleep, but it seemed to appease Bobby. He left and started digging around the fridge, which Dean took as his cue to wake up Sam and get them ready for the day.

"Sam," he croaked, licking his chapped lips. He shook Sam gently by the shoulder, afraid to spook him. "Sammy. Wake up,"

Sam murmured something plaintively, his lips pressed against Dean's collarbones as he attempted to bury himself under Dean's arms to avoid waking up.

"No, no, no," Dean said, his voice growing in strength. "C'mon, that shit doesn't work with me. Wake up. Wake up. Wake up." He poked Sam with every syllable until Sam was glaring up at him through slanted eyes, pushing Dean's fingers away with a heavy grunt.

"M'up," he whined, sitting up and stumbling off the couch, wincing and rubbing at a spot on the side of his neck. He seemed to waver on his feet for a moment, blinking, before he got his balance back and started moving toward the stair with stiff, zombielike movements. Dean trailed after him, rubbing at his eyes with the bases of his palms.

They woke up in small increments as they went through their morning routine, Dean watching Sam whenever Sam turned his back and Sam doing the same, worrying his bottom lip between his teeth. When they returned downstairs, Bobby stepped around them silently, thankfully ignoring the way Sam was always right at Dean's back, the backs of their hands brushing too many times to be an accident.

They sat in silence, forks clinking against dishes, a woodpecker outside pecking a staccato beat to fill the silence. Today was warmer, and cloudless, all the curtains thrown open in the house.

Dean stole a look at Sam sitting beside him, an entire foot of empty space at the end of table because of how Sam was crowding him. He didn't mind, though, was more concerned about Bobby's interpretation of their state of affairs, if he would cast them out even with Sam like this.

Sam stabbed at his eggs, assaulting them with his fork, his brows drawn together. His eyes were hooded, glaring daggers at his food as if it had personally wronged him.

"Something on your mind, Sam?" Bobby rumbled before Dean could.

"I. Want. To. Know. What. Cas. Found," he grumbled, punctuating each word with another slam to the table, "So we can know how much of a liability I am."

Dean leaned back in his chair. "Sammy-"

"You know it's true!" Sam huffed, shoving his plate away from himself and standing, his chair groaning behind him. "Stop treating me like a child! I'm not a child! I deserve to know! Dean deserves to know!"

He walked a few steps toward the door before pausing and turning on his heel. "I'm going to wait outside," he told them, "you two better follow. I'll give you a few minutes before I'm calling Cas whether you like it or not!" His voice devolved into a high-pitched whine the longer he talked, and then he was storming outside, the screen door shaking in its holdings as he slammed it behind him.

Dean would never, ever tell Sam, but the little episode scared him. He put his head in his hands, sighing, an image of chubby baby Sammy appearing in his head, throwing a tantrum over some cheap toy at a gas station.

"We have to tell him sometime, you know," Bobby said, shaking Dean out of his memories.

"I know," Dean sighed, picking up his head and frowning tiredly at Bobby, "I just... don't want him to have another breakdown. It feels like I'm walking in a fucking landmine or something. Sooner or later, he'll get triggered. I'd just rather it be later.

"And the whole... he's different, Bobby, he's a completely different person," his voice broke as he finished speaking, and he stared out the window at Sam pacing in the front yard, weaving among discarded, rusty hubcaps.

"Hey. Hey. Look at me, Dean," Bobby said urgently, standing up and looking down at Dean. "He's different, yeah. He went through something worse than hell, Dean, for years, of course he's different. He needs to heal, s'all. He needs you. And he sure as hell doesn't need you looking at him like a damn stranger. He's not someone else. He's your little brother, plain and simple. And you're gonna go out there and be there when Cas is, you hear? We all are."

Dean stared up at Bobby, his adam's apple bobbing as he swallowed.

"Well?" Bobby pushed, quirking an eyebrow.

"Yeah," Dean blew out a long breath. "Yeah, I'll be there."

Bobby nodded, satisfied, and adjusted the cap on his head. Dean got up, rolling his shoulders before setting them, facing up to the news he really didn't want to hear.

The moment he opened the door Sam was walking over, eyes wide as if he didn't believe Dean would ever come out.

"You'll stay?" Sam asked, youthful hope in his voice.

"Like I got a choice?" Dean asked him. "Yeah, I'll stay, but we're having a talk after, so you're not going anywhere."

Sam had the grace to look chagrined, ducking his head and grimacing. Bobby clapped his hands together, effectively ending their moment, and came down the steps between them, slapping a hand on both of their shoulders. He released them, tilting his head to the sunlight streaming down on them. "Oh, almighty Cas, get yer holy little ass down here. Sam is ready to see you again."

"You sure?" Dean murmured, moving back over to Sam, his mouth close enough to Sam's ear to cause a flush to rise throughout Sam's cheeks.

"I- I wanna," Sam explained, scratching the back of his head and looking off toward the yard, his eyes roving the cars for angels. "It's like... closure, okay? I wanna be brave enough to do this."

Dean smiled at him, eyes crinkling at the corners and eyes lighting up emerald as the sun hit them just right. "You are," Dean told him, the flutter of wings stopping him from talking any further.

Cas nodded his head at Sam. "Glad you're doing better," he said shortly, keeping his distance like last time.

"Cas..." Sam trailed off, his voice weak. "It's okay, you don't have to stay back. Just tell me what you know, okay? What did you learn from my soul?"

Castiel nodded again, taking a single step forward before stopping, looking at each of them in turn before starting.

"Your soul is... flayed from hell. Skinned alive. Frozen. Still bright, though... still very much alive. But I could see more than that, could read its history like rock layers. You still bear angelic traces from your time with my brothers. But you have something else, too. For lack of a better word, you have... purity."

"Purity?" Dean echoed. "What the hell does that mean?"

Cas turned to him. "Sam hadn't sold his soul. He hadn't- whether he chooses to believe it or not- committed any sins so heinous he deserved to go to even the first circle of hell, let alone the ninth. He had atoned for all of his crimes. He was no demon. Therefore, not just hell, but specifically the pit rejected him. It's more than a cage, it's a treatment. Designed for angels, not humans. It pushed him out. Slowly, yes, but surely, pieces of him were turned back to the earth. The only problem is, Lucifer held on."

Dean felt Sam stiffen at his side. "What?" He choked out, his voice hardly above a whisper, "Lucifer's-- he's here with me?"

Cas shook his head immediately, holding his hands up to pacify Sam. "No, Sam, it's okay. Let me rephrase. Some of his grace attached to your soul when he tried to grab at you, claw you back down into the center of hell. Not any of himself, not enough to be concrete, but enough to let a sort of ghost of him appear to you. Only you. As I touched you, I could feel the grace quickly fading, exiting from your body because it didn't belong. Any leftover bits of him should be gone, Sam. It should just be you in there. You and your memories. The reason you saw Lucifer and started creating omens was because the tiny piece of his conscience was trying to get you to raise him. You would've succeeded if it weren't for your brother, reaching the larger part of your soul, the truer part."

There was a long pause as they all soaked the new information in, digesting it. A cloud moved over the sun and moved on before someone spoke again.

"What do we do now?" Sam whispered, leaning toward Cas. "Am I-- can the ritual still be completed? Am I safe yet?"

Cas smiled reassuringly, the look slightly plastic on his face. "You should be. The only reason Lucifer would rise would be if you finished the ritual of your own volition, which I trust you not to do. You're finally safe, Sam. There is no need for more pain, more atonement. I'm truly sorry you had to go through this ordeal in the first place."

Sam sagged against Dean, turning toward him for comfort. Dean shot Bobby and Cas a look before wrapping his arms around his brother, murmuring little nothings against his ear as he held Sam through his tremors. Dean listened to Cas and Bobby disappear inside the house as he rubbed his hands up and down Sam's back, trying to listen as Sam mumbled something under his breath.

"It's over. It's over. It's over," he was whispering brokenly, sniffling.

"You're damn right it is," Dean agreed, his own voice soft as he tried not to let his emotions overwhelm him. "I've got you now, Sammy, and nobody else ever fuckin' will, I promise."

"Better keep that promise," Sam told him, his voice thin and reedy, halting across each word. He pulled back slightly from Dean, letting Dean's hands slide down his sides to rest on his hips. "So-- Sam looked down, lips turning down, "y-y-you wanted to talk?"

Dean sighed, patting Sam once. "Yes, okay? We need to talk."

Sam nodded, stepping back toward the steps of the porch, his spindly legs wavering and tottering like a baby sparrow as he went. Dean followed after him, staring at Sam's emaciated body with a frown before settling down on the steps beside him.

Sam looked at him, opening his mouth to speak before snapping it shut, blushing and staring at the gravel at his feet. He kicked a few stones loose, his mouth quirking as he waited for Dean to speak.

"We kissed," Dean said, squinting against the sunlight and staring placidly across the yard.

"I know. I was there," Sam said, and Dean laughed outright, surprised Sam had cracked a joke at all, considering. He smiled back at Dean, but his jaw was still tense, and the smile didn't reach his eyes.

"Hey. Don't worry," Dean soothed, shifting slightly to face Sam, his nose creating a shadow that stretched across half of his face. "It's just-- you avoided me after it happened. We never talked about it. You can't take back what you said about how you feel. And I don't want you to. I feel the same, I swear. It's just-"

"Bobby?" Sam filled in quietly, leaning back against the steps. "You think he'll be disgusted if he finds out? That he'll think we're freaks?"

"Yeah," Dean mumbled distractedly, looking away from Sam. He couldn't stop thinking about what he'd told Bobby in the kitchen before Cas's verdict was delivered, taking a weight off all of their shoulders. He couldn't shake the niggling little feeling in the back of his head that he was taking advantage of Sam.

"There's something else, isn't there?" Sam broke into his thoughts, looking scared. "D-Dean... what is it?"

Dean didn't want to lie to him. He felt doused in guilt, ready to be lit on fire if he kept it inside himself any longer. He didn't want to hurt, Sam, either. But if he'd learned anything from their past, secrets hurt a lot more than the hurt he thought he was saving Sam from by keeping them. Taking a deep breath, he began. "I've already told you that I care for you, too. I don't regret the kiss, you hear? Not for a second. I don't want you to worry on about this until the stress beats you down or something, kiddo. It's not a giant complicated puzzle. It's just us.

"But... you were hurt, Sammy. Bad. For a long time. You get these episodes, and they're not your fault, but they make me worry. You were... he hurt you sexually, okay? With my face. I just don't think it's the smartest idea to jump right into something like that when something so horrible happened not that far back for you. I don't want you to be with me and see him. Even for a second, 'cause that would kill me. It has to be the two of us, Sam. Not Lucifer, not your memories. I don't think that's possible yet."

"You heard Cas," Sam hissed after a tense pause. "He's gone. He's gone, okay? It is just you and me! I promise! I did think you regretted it, yeah. But now I know you don't. And..." he trailed off, biting his lip. "I want this. Dean, who said we have to jump right into anything. It-- it doesn't have to be like that."

"Then what's it like?"

Sam slipped his hand into Dean's squeezing it and grinning softly, his cheeks heating up. "Us not being stupid about it."

Dean tilted his head back, eying Sam like a detective to a suspect. "Not stupid, huh? It was stupid before?" he teased.

"No!" Sam blurted, face going redder. He put his head in his hands. "We can just be smart about this, I mean."

"Sounds like my old Sammy," Dean murmured lowly, and the look in his eyes took Sam's breath away.

The thing is, he wanted to take Dean's breath away, too. He leaned in, their noses bumping and brushing before his lips found their mark, pressing chastely against Dean's, lingering long enough for Dean to finally stop gawking and close his eyes, leaning back into Sam and reaching up to cup his face. They parted, breathing heavily, and the smitten look on Dean's face was wiped off in a split second.

The light, airy feeling pulled away from Sam. "What?" he asked, swallowing thickly.

"Do you think... do you think Bobby and Cas saw?" Dean asked, fidgeting, a hand tracing lightly over Sam's spit glossing his lip.

"Let's go see," Sam said firmly, ignoring the headache growing behind his eyes, trying to look strong. He took Dean's hand in his own, but reconsidered, slowly pulling back. They shared a look before climbing up the rest of the steps and heading inside, the echoes of shouts immediately reaching their ears.

Sam bulldozed past the worried glance he knew Dean was aiming at him and opened the door to see Cas and Bobby only inches apart, both red in the face, so caught up in their dispute they didn't see or hear Sam and Dean slip in to gawk and stare.

"I need a hunter's help!" Cas spat, trembling with a fury that was rare to him, "Sam's in no condition to go anywhere, let alone a battle field, and I refuse to be so cruel as to take Dean from him. What good would that do?! For either of them? I need you to come back with me, Bobby, or the entire world's just going to end again, do you hear me?"

When he noticed Bobby's eyes weren't aimed at him, but past his shoulder, his grizzled face apologetic, he turned, chest still heaving, and blinked at the sight of Sam and Dean, both frozen, Dean's hand gripping Sam's arm so tightly that his knuckles were white.

Sam looked lost, like he'd walked into a house and found someone else living there, with the furniture rearranged. Dean was transitioning from confusion to anger, a vein standing out in his forehead as his eyes looked between the two of them and the twin guilt marring their faces.

"What did we miss?" Dean asked lightly, a threat still registering beneath his words, breaking the moment of inaction.

Cas sighed, his face returning to a normal shade before he opened his mouth to explain. "Dean-"

"Nope," Dean said, holding up a hand and nodding to Bobby, grinning. "I wanna hear what Uncle Bobby's been keeping from the two of us first, then you can explain, got it?"

Cas had the grace to look ashamed, and he nodded, shutting his mouth.

Dean risked a glance at his brother, and found Sam was taking this reasonably well. Reasonably well as in not curled up in the corner whining, instead staring at the floor, eyes vacant, hands limp at his sides. Dean breathed slowly in and out his nose and threw a glare Bobby's way, rubbing his hand up and down Sam's arm.

"After Michael and Lucifer got locked up, heaven had no mission. No angels running things, and with God still awol, well... it just went nuts. There's a power struggle going on right now and heaven's falling to shit because the angels either can't make decisions for themselves or are making the wrong ones. Lots of the battles are happening down here. More hunters're callin' me about angels than ghosts these days," Bobby said, scoffing, hands tucked into his pockets. "Cas wants to unite them, before more civilians get killed. Before it goes too far."

Dean nodded, biting his bottom lip. "Why didn't you tell us about this?"

"I didn't think you boys needed that on your plate," Bobby sighed. "I thought I could just send a few hunters to go with him, but..."

"It's getting worse," Cas stepped in. "Bobby has an incredible knowledge of angels, biblical tales, our history. He's the best I've got, with you two, well."

"We're fine," Dean snapped, eyes flashing. "But, yeah, if you think it's so damn bad, just go, Bobby."

Sam looked up, his face still impassive. "Dean-"

"I ain't leaving." Dean said firmly. "I'm staying here with Sam, no matter what. We deserve something, okay? Just once."

Bobby nodded, with a look in his eyes that said he knew Dean would never have made any other choice. "The salvage yard's yours, then, if you want to make an honest living. Take care of my house, you hear? And Sam, look after him, make sure he doesn't make a fool out of himself."

Sam smiled weakly. Neither of them spoke. They heard the implication of Bobby's goodbye, that it would be final. It went unspoken between all of them, emotion flowing almost solidly between them. Cas nodded and cleared his throat, drawing attention to himself. "It's settled, then," he told them, "Bobby and I will leave in the morning."

"Good luck," Sam whispered, turning his eyes down, and Cas's face softened a fraction before he was gone completely with a rustle of wings.

Bobby cleared out soon after, leaving the two of them alone in the kitchen, silently absorbing all of the different information that had been thrown at them in just a few hours. Sam sucked in a shuddery breath, grimacing and smiling, and Dean was there instantly, wrapping his arms around Sam. Sam's arms crept up his back and gripped the material of his shirt as he pressed himself flush against his brother, breathing in the scent of them.

They stayed there, swaying slightly on their feet, beams of sunlight hitting their backs and stretching their shadows, lingering for as long as their feet could keep them upright.

**  
**

THE WORDS, PART THREE .

The hours passed with barely a memory to go along with them. Bobby kept his distance, going out to finish some salvage jobs and hiding away in his shed. Cas disappeared to who-knows-where, as always. Sam found himself spending the day in a companionable, contemplative silence with Dean, having beers out back and cleaning out Bobby's basement for him. He knew what Dean was doing-- keeping Sam occupied to distract his mind from himself. It didn't bother him. He felt a headache coming on, as if some bad memory was about to knock down his door and drag him into the deepest recesses of his mind. He was grateful for Dean's distractions, for how Dean could read him so well and find a way to help him.

He tried not to be a bother to Dean, tried not to blurt things out when they came to mind because he noticed the look in Dean's eye whenever he did, the look that said he'd done something wrong, something different. One more thing to scream in Dean's face that Sam had died and gone to hell, and he was turned inside out and twisted around now. Messed up. He couldn't help how his mind wandered, how the self he had been before was thousands of years old, a man he barely remembered.

Maybe he wasn't completely Sam. Maybe there was no hope of that. But he still loved Dean, would still jump right back into hell for him without a second thought, and that was enough to keep him living.

Dean elbowed him, and he startled, turning to look at his brother.

"Don't get lost too deep in there, you hear?" Dean had murmured, handing him a box labeled "Cursed objects" and grinning at him. Sam returned the look, getting back down to business and putting the box where it belonged. He had been sinking deeper into his head, but with one sentence Dean had levered him back out to safety.

Dean might not realize it, but he was the one who had really pulled Sam out of hell, in that bar on the edge of Arizona. Without him, Sam would still be locked up in his own body, on some mindless, destructive charade, pulling the devil back up out of his confines.

Sam knew he had made a difference, too. Dean's eyes were no longer heavy and dark, shaded by bags. He no longer jolted awake every night, gasping Sam's name and staying up until the sun. Dean didn't get lost, either, anymore, a haunted look possessing his face when he thought of where Sam had gone, of Life After Sam.

Sam pulled him out of those places, too.

Before he knew it, Dean was shaking him gently, his eyes staring down at him among the dark blue haze of pre-sunrise. He trudged out of bed in his sweats, turning on the coffee pot and giving Bobby a cup of it- black- before watching him and Cas leave, standing next to Dean on the porch, family seeing soldiers off to war.

Then, they had the house to themselves.

It was an odd feeling. Bobby had given Sam the keys to the house and the shed, a warm look lighting his eyes up along with the sun. "Keep 'er safe, son," he'd ordered, voice rough with emotion, before pulling them both into a crushing hug. Cas had stood back a ways, waiting for the goodbyes to end. He'd nodded Sam's way when Bobby stepped down with his bags. Sam nodded back and Cas turned, helping Bobby stow away his stuff in his old Chevelle.

After a slow, tired morning full of maybe-permanent goodbyes, the emptiness was disconcerting, the silence now stifling.

"You in there somewhere?" Dean asked, voice still cottoned with sleep, padding into the kitchen and handing Sam a cup of coffee. Sam choked a little when he took his first gulp-- Dean had spiked it, and while he wasn't surprised, it had been awhile since he'd had a drink that wasn't virgin. He didn't exactly trust himself drunk anymore, terrified that in his stupor he'd follow after Lucifer like a lovestruck puppy again, blind with false promises and Stockholm Syndrome.

He took only a few more sips before setting the cup down on the counter at his back. Dean came around and stood next to him, shuffling closer until they were squished together in the wide, open space, drinking in each other's warmth.

There was no difference between one second and the next, no clouds covering the sun or ominous creaks echoing through the farmhouse, but all the same, the shadows started encroaching on Sam's space, wavering and seeming like holes devoid of all light, staring straight at him. Each foot of space stretched to a mile until the house was massive, quiet, and full of dangers he couldn't quite decipher.

" _Deean_?" he said, knowing how pathetic he must sound, how plaintive, but he didn't care. When Dean set down his own mug, turning to face Sam and frowning, Sam grabbed his hands and pulled them over to his own hips. He crushed his mouth against Dean's, nothing slow or romantic about it, only needy.

"Woah, woah, woah-" Dean got out between kisses, Sam not giving him a chance to speak, instead silencing his words with his mouth, sucking on Dean’s bottom lip. Dean's hands tightened and flexed on his hips, indecisive, before pulling away, a strand of spit still connecting their shiny lips. He could feel the bruises that would form on his hipbones where Dean was keeping him at bay, giving him a strange, wary look.

"What was that for?" Dean asked, all business, blunt and gruff.

Sam couldn't help but shy away from his tone, flinching slightly and bristling defensively. "Did it have to be for anything?"

Dean's lips thinned. "That's not what I meant. Are you-- are you okay? You looked a little scared before you kissed me."

Sam sighed, any energy he had leaving him all at once, a tree felled, falling back against the counter and staring listlessly at the floor.

They were both silent for several beats, unmoving. Dean's hand found his, squeezing tightly. Sam squeezed back.

"Well?" Dean prompted, being careful not to raise his voice and shatter the moment.

"It's the shadows," Sam whispered, his throat feeling thicker with each second. He refused to look at Dean, shame burning his cheeks red. "I know-- I know there's nothing there. But they just keep staring at me."

With each second that Dean didn't respond, he sunk lower, ducking his head to use his hair to hide his face and curling his arms around his torso. His hair was still long and unruly. Dean's attempts at combing out each knot had all ended badly, with Sam pushing him away and locking himself in the bathroom for hours at a time. Sam knew he must look a sight-- thin and pale and bony. Raggedy and unruly. Weak. He was glancing around like an assassin hid behind the rack of drying laundry or under the quilt on the back of the couch, hissing nonsense about shadows. He couldn't stop the single laugh that pushed its way out of his throat, hurt and self-deprecating.

"Hey," Dean said immediately, an edge to his voice, gripping Sam's hand tighter. "We'll leave then, okay? We'll go somewhere else. We've been cramped up in this house for weeks now, doing nothing. Don't you wanna go out for a bite, Sammy? Somewhere with actual fuckin' lighting, unlike this cave. I've actually been wanting to stretch my legs, so. Lunch, Sam? Do you remember Mayweather's Diner in downtown Sioux Falls? We used to fuck around there as kids. It's  been awhile. Whaddaya say? Sam? Sam?"

"Oh. What?" Sam mumbled, turning away from the corners of the room when he heard Dean call his name. "Sorry. Can you. Um." he looked down again, his eyes burning and blurring at the edges. No matter how easily Dean played it off, it was obvious to Sam how worthless he was right now, how broken. He heard someone laugh at the back of the house and forced himself to meet Dean's eyes, to ignore it, to listen.

"Mayweather's Diner," Dean said slowly, taking his hand from Sam's and pushing off from the counter. Recognition sparked in Sam's head at the name-- he remembered Dean using change to get them both kid's meals, lingering long after their meals were finished, the waitress letting them stay until John finally came to pick them up with bloodstains hastily wiped off his face. Sam blinked, twitching his head slightly, dispelling the cobwebs forming in his head. "Do you wanna go?" Dean was saying.

Sam bobbed his head, nodding haltingly. "Y-y-es," he swallowed, forcing a smile onto his face. "Let's go."

Dean beamed back, straight teeth and little crow's feet and all, slapping him heartily on the back before heading to the front door. Sam followed behind, shoving his hands in his pockets and sending a prayer skyward that he wouldn't ruin this moment, this diner of theirs for Dean.

The Impala did wonders for his sanity.

The worn leather seats, the familiar strange mix of whiskey, sweat, and gunpowder in the air, the polished buttons on the dashboard-- Dean spent hours each week lovingly caring for his car, Sam usually not far away, leaning on some old junker and handing Dean his tools when he asked for them.

Dean seemed to feel the same. He hummed as he leaned back in the seat, running his hand over the wheel briefly before sliding the key into the ignition, the car shaking into life beneath them. He made a noise at Sam and Sam opened the glove box obediently, taking out the shoebox of cassettes and thumbing through the selections before choosing an R.E.M. one, rarely played, one Sam had gotten at a rummage sale for Dean, unaware that it wasn't quite his taste.

Still, Sam loved R.E.M. He knew Dean wouldn't complain at the selection-- this trip was for Sam, so the music could be, too. They pulled out onto the dirt road and then into town, the packed ground being replaced with pavement and a smoother drive. Dean urged the car faster, sighing in satisfaction, and took a few spins down Main Street before parking outside Mayweather's diner, the worn yellow siding exactly as it was years ago, if a bit more decrepit. The cursive sign's paint was almost completely worn off, but the swooping words were unmistakeable. A light crowd ate in booths and at the bar, two waitresses busily walking between tables.

Sam was hit with a barrelful of nostalgia. Nothing had changed here, as if one of their keystone childhood haunts had been preserved in time for them to return to, a little piece of life before all the heartache and all the horrible growing up that they had to do.

Dean tapped him on the shoulder, one eyebrow raised, and Sam smiled meekly back at him, nodding his head to say _I'm okay_. Dean nodded back, his features looking a little less like a hardened warrior and more like an older brother.

They got out of the car in sync, the slamming of car doors just one noise.

The bell above the door jingled as they walked in, and the woman behind the bar glanced at them for half a second before returning her eyes to the counter she was wiping down. Music played softly all across the room, something country that Sam was unfamiliar with. They seated themselves, sliding into a booth at the back of the restaurant with a window looking out over the town. The red vinyl squeaked as they sat, and Sam played with a chip in the table as he looked over the menu that hadn't changed, one he still had memorized.

It was only a few minutes until a waitress was smiling down at them and they had sodas in hand, Sam managing to order the "Mr. Grumble's Grilled Cheese Special" with a straight face.

The food was just as he remembered it, warm and delicious and somehow perfectly small-town tasting. If the sight of the diner had sent him back in time, the smell and taste of the food was like a vivid hallucination: he could see himself before his growth spurt clearly in his mind's eye, sitting across from Dean and glaring at him as he flirted with the waitress quadruple his age.

It was a giddy feeling. He actually felt excited and happy, bouncing up and down in his seat like an eager puppy, Dean snorting at him over his glass. He leaned back in his seat, sinking into the cushions. "This was a good idea," he gushed, scanning the diner with a grin permanently plastered over his face. He was trying to make his grilled cheese last, even though it had long since gone cold, sparingly taking bites as Dean watched him from across the formica table.

Sam spread his long fingers over the surface of it, tapping the pads against it in a little beat, trying to soak up the essence and feeling of the diner through his hands. Restlessly, he flitted between taking bites of sandwich and sips of chocolate milk, closing his eyes and sighing with the memories that tugged over him like a safety blanket. A split second decision led to him blowing bubbles in the chocolate milk until they were burbling over the side of the glass, just like he had that night in August way back in... when was that? Had he been in sixth grade? Years were inconsequential,  nonsensical with all the hell years in between. He had been young and moppy-haired, definitely. A child.

He startled out of his reverie when Dean was leaning over him, cursing. His jittery, dancing fingers had knocked the milk over, spreading it out across them and dripping into his lap. Dean was trying to wipe it up, but the shitty little paper napkins weren't doing anything to help. Sam sat frozen, embarrassed, watching his brother work and shoot little glances at the patrons who were watching their little episode.

The realization Dean was embarrassed about him shook him hard. It wasn't "their" episode, it was "Sam's". He'd done this. He was a grown man, acting like he still had someone else tie his shoelaces. Could he tie his own shoelaces? His boots had no laces. Shoe-tying appeared to be another thing hell had washed away.

He flushed darker scarlet, feeling the burn all the way up in his ears as his heart pounded in such a way his hands began to shake. He pressed himself back into the seat, wishing he could just squeeze himself into oblivion, into this place that reverted him into a child.

"Sam. Sam," Dean barked, pulling Sam's hands over the table to his and looking him in the eye. "Go clean up in the bathroom, okay? You didn't do anything wrong, I can see the look on your face. Don't freak out, got it?"

Sam nodded, mouth shut tight, afraid his voice would come out pre-pubescent and high-pitched, stumbling over large words and hard syllables. He stood, slipping out of the booth and jogging into the bathroom, unable to face the piteous stares of waitresses and patrons alike.

He splashed water on his face and washed his hands. He wet some paper towels and ineffectually patted down his lap, the dark stain remaining there no matter what he did, evidence of his misdemeanor. Sighing in that juddery, close-to-tears way, he stepped back out, lingering in the hallway when he saw their waitress leaning over the table and talking to Dean, cleavage right in his face.

"My cousin's not right in the head, too," she was saying, drawing a bright red lip into her mouth and smiling down at him, "I know what it's like to have to take care of someone like that all the time, you know? If you ever need a break, I'm always in town, sugar, and I can take your mind off that overgrown child for awhile."

Sam flinched, stepping back, his eyes immediately blurring over as he forgot how to breathe properly. Before he could run away somewhere, Dean was up, and his fist was swinging, and she was on the ground, holding her nose with her hands and sobbing. Sam froze, watching with morbid curiosity as Dean stood over her, walking slowly like a predator coming in for the kill.

"There ain't nothing wrong with Sam," he growled lowly, his voice echoing in the dead silence of the room, "and I don't want your fucking pity. He doesn't deserve your fucking pity. He's brilliant, and smart, and clever, and kinder than you'll ever be. I'm so fucking glad I have him. And another thing. That cousin of yours? Isn't just some overgrown child. He's a... he's a fucking person. I hope the rest of your family isn't as fucking rude as you are, or god help you all," Dean spat, leering over her before turning to look at Sam as if he'd known he was there the whole time.

There was a certain resignation in the way he moved, the way his shoulders moved as if they were carrying a weight as he walked toward Sam.

"We're leaving," Dean whispered softly, taking Sam's hand firmly in his own and moving, forcing Sam to trail after him, his mind whirling at a mile a minute. They stepped past gawking tables of people, listening to the lone sound of the woman crying on the floor before the door shut behind them, silencing her.

Sam got into the car with jerky, precise moments, afraid if he didn't pay special attention he'd do something else wrong. His mind felt so disjointed, like he was multiple songs on a record and the needle kept skipping back and forth, changing tune without a single warning. He felt as if he was watching himself close the door, face forward. He felt detached. Wrong.

He heard Dean speak to him, ask if he was okay. Sam didn't want to respond, so he stayed silent, hoping that if he looked down the road long enough Dean would take the hint and drive them home.

It didn't take long, and once they hit the road Sam dropped his facade, his body working its way up to more and more violent tremors. Dean kept eyeing him, pressing the pedal further and further to the floor, the landscape blurring as they raced past.

A split second later Dean's arms were pushing underneath his, dragging him out of the car by his armpits and leaning him up against its side, reaching forward and taking Sam's face in his hands, saying something Sam couldn't focus on in a desperate tone of voice. Lucifer leaned over Dean's shoulder, sticking a forked tongue out at Sam.

"You're nothing," he hissed, "absolutely nothing without me. You useless, stupid child. If you had only done as you were told, you wouldn't be in this mess. I hold your head together, Sam. You can shake and cry all you want, it's true. I'm your other half. This? This is your real hell. Imbecile."

Behind glazed eyes, Sam belatedly noticed Dean was crying, shaking Sam by the face and yelling something hoarsely. He just... couldn't connect. He wasn't himself. Lucifer was right. He wasn't anything, wasn't anyone. The only time he was him without pause was with the Devil by his side.

But Dean's broken noises were drawing him out of himself. Dean had moved from shaking Sam to wrapping his arms around him in a stifling hug, so Sam was enveloped in the warmth and smell of Dean. Before long, his heart rate was settling down, and his mind seemed to stay on one track, to play the right song in sequential order. He blinked, gasping, testing his hands, moving them up to hug Dean back.

"Sammy? Sammy?" Dean asked instantly, weak and watery, pulling back to stare wide-eyed at Sam. "Are you with me? Sammy?"

"I..." Sam trailed off, his lip wobbling as his mind kept reverting back to the diner. "I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry, please... I don't mean to be like that. It just happens sometimes."

Dean laughed, an ugly sound. "It's okay," he breathed, smiling weakly, "no one expects you to be perfect, least of all me. We've just got a few dents to work out, huh? That doesn't happen all at once, kiddo. Will you be okay if it takes time? I mean... if you're not one-hundred percent for awhile? You'll get there, you just... you gotta keep at it, Sammy. Please. When you're gone, I can't-" Dean bit his lip to shut himself up and looked away, down the road they'd just come from.

"Can you take care of me?" Sam begged quietly, drawing his hand around to curl in the material of Dean's shirt.

"Of course," Dean murmured back, swiping Sam's hair out of his face before leaning forward and pressing a lingering kiss to Sam's forehead, squeezing his eyes shut tight and willing the fullness to leave his throat and the moisture to leave his eyes. "C'mon."

He levered Sam up, and they walked inside together, leaning shoulder-to-shoulder. Dean laughed when they didn't fit inside, having to separate for a few agonizing seconds before they were glued back together again, and _god,_ Sam thought, _was it addicting._ Dean led them up to their bedroom and over to his bed, tugging back the covers and throwing his clothes off until he was just in an undershirt and a pair of boxers. Sam followed suit, kicking off his boots and yanking off his jacket. When he was done, he crawled in after Dean, pulling the blankets back up over them until they were ensconced in their own tiny, private world.

He let a breath out very slowly, warming up and feeling the pieces of himself slide securely back into place, where they belonged. "I'm sorry," he said again, clearer this time, never looking away from Dean's affectionate face.

"You got nothing to be sorry for," Dean told him, the sentence now familiar, his voice sounding worn and well-used. Dean opened up his arms and Sam took the cue, snuggling into him until they were chest to chest, Sam's face buried in the crook of Dean's neck.

It was only then, safe with his beautiful older brother, that Sam allowed himself to fully relax.

**  
**

THE WORDS, PART FOUR .

Dean could feel Sam coming back to him.

It was weird to think of his brother in fractured pieces, like a scraped knee, the skin weaving back together agonizingly slowly. And maybe there'd be a scar, maybe the skin would never be perfectly healed or whole.

It was better than amputation.

"Sam," he said, clearing his throat, trying to vocalize some truth he hadn't quite grasped yet, "I, um, I think."

Sam wiggled a little closer, reaching down to put Dean's hand back on his hip from where it had strayed. He looked up at Dean, the moonlight shaping his face to look so worn but so youthful at the same time. "You think what?" he whispered softly, in that sharing-a-secret type of voice, pitched just low enough that Dad could never hear when they used to do this.

"Back in the diner... that's fine, okay? I don't want you to think that that's not you. I mean, don't go thinkin' you're only you sometimes, and when you act differently you're not. 'Cause you're always you, even if your mind likes to play tricks sometimes, okay? Always. You don't need to come back to me, 'cause you're right here."

"Are you saying that for me or for yourself?" Sam asked, his voice still feather-soft, just as rain began to hit the window, creating a soothing white noise.

Dean took a moment to think on Sam's words, so simple but more profound than he'd expected for a nine P.M. cuddle session. He moved his hand up to the back of Sam's neck and squeezed, sighing. He breathed in the scent of his brother and marveled for the billionth time that he was here with Sam at all-- that they were together, and wrapped up in each other, with two beating hearts and warm skin.

"Thank you," he told Sam, unable to come up with anything more meaningful. It would have to do.

Sam smiled up at him, a small thing, the beginnings of dimples forming on either side of his lips. "No problem," he said, and Dean couldn't help but lean forward and kiss him, desperate to taste the softness of his mouth.

Sam responded immediately, letting his mouth fall open so Dean could control the kiss, probing deeper, nipping at Sam's lip until it was red and shiny. Sam's eyes darkened as his breaths became short little moans, his hands wandering up to grip Dean's t-shirt, frozen, wanting to pull him closer but restraining. Dean seemed to feel the same-- the kiss became more heated, more desperate, and Dean pressed his tongue against Sam's before nudging Sam's mouth open wider and lapping into it, his hips jerking minutely of their own volition, his erection pressing hard against Sam's thigh.

Dean reared back when he realized he was grinding against Sam, tearing their mouths apart, a strand of spit connecting them and shining in the watered-down moonlight. He opened his mouth to speak, but he was dizzy with need, unable to form words.

"I want it, too," Sam hissed, leaning back and pulling Dean over him, Dean's knees on either side of his hips. "I-- please, I need him out of me, I need you to get him out." 

Sam bucked up once, pointedly, still meeting Dean's eyes, and the slight friction of their dicks beneath their boxers caused any reservations Dean had to fly right out the window.

"Okay," he gasped, nodding, "okay."

Sam beamed, but it was heavy with meaning, and he bit his lip as he reached down and wiggled out of his boxers, throwing them across the room. The t-shirt was next, and then Dean was faced with the soft planes of Sam's body, accented and sharpened by moonlight, toned and beautiful. His scars were all gone, healed by Castiel, but the anti-possession tattoo remained, stark and black above his heart, just like Dean's. A trail of dark hair curled around the base of a heavy, red cock, leaking against Sam's belly. He was breathing quickly, watching Dean, his cock twitching once when Dean swore and tugged his own shirt and boxers off. He leaned over Sam, his dick bobbing with interest, and Sam's eyes slid down to it. His eyes widened and he moaned, gripping his own cock around the base and squeezing to make himself last.

He reached up and wrapped his arms around Dean's torso, trying to pull him closer, but Dean resisted, wanting to look and savor before anything else. Sam's dick was long, as multiple ruler tests as teens had proved, but now he was aroused instead of jealous. It was thinner than Dean's, and paler, with a rosy pink mushroom head. Dean's own dick was thick and darker in color, and Dean thought they'd look beautiful next to each other.

He leaned down and rocked against Sam experimentally, enjoying how Sam jerked, the breath going right out of him. He wrapped a hand around Sam's length and tugged roughly, sliding the palm of his hand up the shaft before pressing his thumb against the slit and smearing precome all along Sam's dick, jacking him faster and harder when Sam keened and whimpered, biting his bottom lip to stop the noises.

Dean grunted when Sam's hand found his dick. He hadn't noticed when Sam had licked his hand slick with spit, but he could sure as hell feel it as Sam's long fingers curled around him and tugged urgently, sloppily, his coordination off because Dean was turning him into a mess.

They were both flushed red and gleaming with sweat, drips pooling in Sam's tummy and his collarbone. Dean bent forward and nipped at Sam's neck before licking up the moisture, causing Sam to writhe even more desperately, fucking up into Dean's fist as if his life depended on it. He bent his neck down and lathed Sam’s nipples quickly, but broke off when he felt his balls draw up and tighten as he got closer to the edge. He moved his mouth back to Sam’s uncoordinatedly, desperate to kiss him. Sam was not any better off than him, crying out and blubbering half-formed nonsense as their cocks and hands bumped against each other, rutting avidly against each other.

"Sam," Dean gasped, pushing into Sam's fist, "Sammy, Sammy, Sammy."

Sam's other hand reached up and he tangled his fingers in Dean's hair, pushing him down until their lips met and Dean groaned into Sam's mouth, pressing his tongue into his wetness and coming at the same time, shaking with the strength of his orgasm, spilling all over Sam's stomach and fingers.

Sam wasn't far behind him, arching up off the bed and baring his neck as his eyes fluttered shut and his dick twitched, come spurting out in thick white ropes, all the way up to his neck. They worked each other through their orgasms, only removing their hands when they were completely spent and satisfied. Sam grinned and raised his hand to his mouth, sucking Dean's come off his fingers one by one.

Dean huffed. "The shit you do to me."

Sam winked at him, cheeks flushed, unable to keep his lips from turning up. He felt charged, energized, and sated, so damn grateful for Dean and Dean's mouth that he couldn't put it into words. "Right back at you," he said lightly, stretching his toes and laying out on the bed, listening to the distant rumble of thunder and the shifting of the sheets. He closed his eyes as Dean leaned over and pressed a messy kiss to his hairline. Dean got up, and Sam heard the click of the bathroom light before running water, and then Dean was back with a wet washcloth, running it carefully over Sam's body, cleaning up their mess.

He tossed the rag in the corner before wrapping his arms around Sam and tugging him closer, putting his chin on top of Sam's head. Sam sighed and leaned into the heat of Dean's skin, feeling him drift away as Dean began humming a slightly off-key rendition of "Hey Jude", rubbing circles in Sam's back all the while.

Dean felt Sam slump into his embrace and knew he'd fallen asleep. He listened to Sam's even breathing, feeling the warm puffs against his chest. He closed his eyes, revelling in how completely centered and perfect everything felt, content in post-orgasmic bliss.

It was strange, but he liked learning all these new little things about Sam; how his voice went higher and higher the closer he got to coming, how his nipples were dark and sensitive, and, most recently, how sex put him out like a god damn light. He stored them safely away with the rest of the tidbits about Sam he knew, hoping he'd be able to memorize Sam's skin, the sounds he makes.

Sam's lips brushed against his skin as he moved in his sleep, and Dean fumbled for the sheets, drawing them up over the two of them and praying that Sam would be okay.

**  
**

THE WORDS, PART FIVE .

Sam had let his guard down.

He'd been trying so hard these past few weeks to be okay for Dean, to be strong, and all it took was one pathetic slip-up, one moment of happiness and weakness for his walls to come crashing down.

He could feel Lucifer's rancid breath against his face, how fast it was, the anticipation radiating off of him. Lucifer touched him on his bare shoulder, and Sam melted instantly, acquiescing hold on his control. He'd fought so hard to kick Lucifer out, to push him away, fending off his advances when he felt him creeping into the corners of his mind by touching Dean, being near him.

But Dean couldn't save him now. Lucifer was wearing his brother's skin, his beautiful green eyes boring into Sam's, whispering false promises Sam couldn't help but believe in. All it took was one kiss, urging him passive, and he was getting out of bed and sliding silently back into his clothes, treading lightly on his feet so he wouldn't wake Dean. He crouched in the corner, lifting up the floorboard and picking up his Taurus, the pearl handle of the gun glimmering among the other weapons Dean had hidden there.

_Because he doesn't trust you_ , a voice hissed, urgent and pressing against his forehead, giving him a throbbing headache.

_He never trusted you. He thinks you're just a kid now, weak and pathetic. Prove him wrong, messiah. Rise._

Sam swallowed back a call for help and tucked the gun into the waistband of his pants, following as Lucifer slipped out of the room and into darkness. His allure was a disease, rapidly spreading through Sam until he couldn't even remember what he was leaving behind. He stared at the strong shoulder blades in front of him, his other half.

_His other half._

They skipped the Impala for a less conspicuous car, taking a civic from the lot because it looked to be in decent shape. After two tries and a blow to his head from Dean, he hotwired it successfully, hoping the sudden flash of headlights against the house didn't wake up--

"I'm right here," Dean murmured, shaking him by the shoulder and smiling. "You don't have to worry, see?"

Sam smiled back, unable to remember a single reason for worry. "Yeah," he murmured, putting the car in drive and pulling away, the sound of the radio muffled by the spattering of raindrops against the windows.

"Where are we going?" Sam asked, pulling to the end of Bobby's drive and waiting.

Dean reclined in the passenger seat, leaning toward Sam and throwing an arm around his neck, calming the last of his frazzled nerves. "We need more sacrifices, more sinners to send down before we can rise up. Head into town. I'm sure we can someone."

Sam nodded, relaxing his grip on the steering wheel and pulling onto the road, making his way toward the lights of civilization.

Dean had him cruise the streets, speeding up past crowds of late-night drinkers but slowing down whenever they found a straggler. So far, Dean had dismissed all of them, and Sam trusted him implicitly, following his directions and waiting for the right target. They were heading back the way they came when Dean spotted someone, hands tucked in their pockets as they hurried along against the increasing downpour.

"Him," he whispered, and Sam pulled to the curb, stepping out of the car, metal cool against the small of his back. The man froze, but it was just him and Sam now, and Sam was going to make sure that he didn't get away.

He would do this for Dean.

He pulled the knife out of his jacket pocket, his head a screaming racket of pain, his vision red, and ran.

**  
**

THE WORDS, PART SEVEN (FIVE MINUTES AGO) .

Dean woke to a cold bed. He turned, expecting to meet a warm body, but flopped against nothing, the pillow cool against his touch. He propped himself up on his shoulders, looking toward the bathroom, but the door was open and the light was off.

Sweeping his gaze around the room, he could just barely make out a dark hole in the floor in the corner of the room.

Realization choked him tightly and he stumbled out of bed, shrugging on a pair of boxers and flicking on the light, squinting against the brightness.

"Sam?" he called, his voice wavering. He put on the rest of his clothes haphazardly, opting for a pair of sweats and a hoodie because they would get him to his brother the fastest. He thundered down the stairs, freezing to listen for any signs of life. The house was dead silent, calm as if Dean's world wasn't exploding around him.

Feeling stupid for not thinking of it earlier, he ran upstairs to call Sam, only to see Sam's phone next to his on the nightstand. He swore, going back downstairs and into the rain barefoot. A pair of headlights blinded him, a silhouette standing in front of them and breathing heavily, a knife glinting red and dripping in the light.

"Sam?" Dean called, raising his voice to be heard over the swirls of thunder breaking the skies. He stepped forward, his eyes adjusting, taking in the dark stains all across Sam's shirt. His heart leapt into his throat and he ran forward, only to freeze when he saw the body lying at Sam's feet.

It was a man, around Dean's age, with the same hair color and a similar jawline. The skin had been peeled away from his face, his eyes carved out. His body was in shreds, little sheets of red skin barely concealing the organs beneath, also stabbed through. Pieces of him were scattered around him, including his hands and feet, one at each cardinal direction-- his hands at North and South, his feet at East and West.

"Sam," Dean choked out, swallowing back bile and forcing his eyes away from the mutilated corpse. "Sam, come inside."

Sam came at him, raising the knife and leaping over the body. Dean dodged him, but just barely, the knife grazing his shoulder and igniting a sting of pain in his arm. He could feeling himself crying, was vaguely aware he was screaming Sam's name, over and over again, his voice jagged and breaking, his throat burning with the effort.

Sam went down, the gravel slick and muddy in the rainfall, and Dean didn't think, only dove after him, pressing Sam down on his belly, his knee at the small of Sam's back and he wrestled Sam's arms behind him, twisting his wrist until he gasped and dropped the knife.

"Stop fighting," Dean begged, swallowing and panting, "please, Sammy, let me help you, god please."

Sam snarled in response, writhing under Dean's weight.

Dean cried harder, apologizing all the while, and brought a fist down heavily against Sam's temple. Sam went limp immediately, his face pale and drawn in the dim lighting.

Dean was all out of tears, dragging in hoarse breaths, hardly able to breathe. His eyes ached, his throat ached, his hand ached. He felt as if he were dead, watching his body move from a distance, hefting Sam up by the armpits and dragging him into the house.

Once Sam was changed into drier, cleaner clothes and locked up on the bed in the panic room, Dean went back out into the yard. The rain had lightened up to only a fine mist, and morning was still far off. By the headlights of the Honda, he dragged the man to the backyard, putting sticks into a long pyre and throwing the man on top before lighting it afire. He walked away, bright, hot flames at his back, and put the car back into its spot, wiping it down of all blood and prints. He scooped gravel over the blood pool where the man had lain, and hoped the rain would wash away his sins.

When he went back to the pyre, it was hissing and popping in the rain, but still going strong, fueled by the gasoline Dean had poured over it. When the man was nothing but charred ash, Dean put out the fire with a blanket. He dug while the sky lightened behind him, kicking the blackened remains of the nameless, unidentifiable man into the hole and burying him.

Wiping his hands on his jeans, he went back into the house, not feeling the dried tears on his face or the cuts on his hands, only numbness.

He sat on the couch for awhile, holding his phone in his hand until it warmed against his palm. He contemplated calling Bobby, but didn't want to deal with what the old man would say, didn't want to believe in any damning verdicts against Sam. Sam would be fine. It just took more time, more healing, that was all. Dean was sure of this.

Only, as he thought that, his heart beat faster as he looked at the floor in misery, feeling guilty for the lack of faith he had in Sam. Breathing out a shaky breath, he got up, tucking his phone in his pocket and running a hand through his hair. He went down the basement stairs, keeping his steps light and silent, and opened up the panic room door, steeling himself against what he might see.

It was not as he'd feared. Sam was not screaming himself hoarse or laughing maniacally with blackened eyes, twitching and seizing against the padded restraints. He was still prone on his back, looking up at Dean with teary, defeated eyes that caused the ache in Dean's heart to grow a thousand sizes larger. He only wanted to comfort Sam, to hold him in his arms and rock him and never let go. Hell, he wanted to sew them together at the hip so they could never part ways.

He walked dazedly toward Sam, sitting down on the edge of the bed near Sam's hip. He couldn't think of a single thing to say. Every phrase that came to mind was a fucking lie, an empty promise he couldn't bear to tell Sam, to get his hopes up for nothing.

Sam sniffed wetly, but didn't say anything, either, only shifting toward Dean fractionally, so their hips touched. Dean snuck a glance at him, to find Sam staring up at the ceiling, biting a wobbling lip. His face would scrunch up as if he were about to cry, but he'd school it before losing control, repeating the process all over again.

"It-- it wasn't me," Sam finally said, his voice choked and made deep by the tears trapped in his throat. He swallowed past them, speaking again. "It was Lucifer. He looked like you. He must not be gone yet, I swear I wouldn't do that, Dean."

"I know," Dean replied immediately, hearing the plea in Sam's words. "I believe you, don't worry, Sammy. Why did y- why did he kill that man? Do you know?"

Sam laughed, biting the inside of his mouth as he frowned. "He still wants out of hell. He still thinks I could love him."

"And can you?" Dean asked reproachfully, regretting the words the second they came out of his mouth.

Sam looked stunned for a second, his eyebrows shooting up, but just as suddenly, his face caved in and he was crying, tugging against the cuffs, trying to curl away from Dean but unable to, bared to him against his will.

"I'm so fuckin' sorry," Dean gasped immediately, "god, I didn't mean it like that, I swear. It's just-- you just killed someone, Sammy. Your head is completely screwed up. I don't think-- I don't think you can just bounce back from this. I thought we were doing better but..." he trailed off, grimacing down at Sam with blurred vision. "I wish we could just be happy," he croaked, looking pained.

Sam was panting now, the sobs coming out of him in rough coughs and shudders. He was clearly making an effort to calm himself down, but failing, instead unraveling further. Dean squeezed himself onto the tiny cot, plastering himself over Sam's body and rubbing his hand down Sam's side, trying to calm him down.

"I'm here," he whispered, "not gonna leave you, remember? It's okay. We just gotta be strong, Sammy. We're gonna have to be really, really, strong."

"Do you think it's possible?" Sam asked raggedly, a bitter note in his voice. "I'm just doomed, like Dad said all those years ago, like Azazel said, like Lucifer does. It never gets better."

"Don't say that," Dean growled, curling an arm protectively around Sam's waist. "We showed them, remember? We didn't play Michael and Lucifer and end the world. We saved it. You did, Sam. You can prove 'em wrong again, I know it."

"I'm not as strong as you," Sam hiccuped, his eyes going wet again. "I can't, I can't."

Dean sat up quickly, taking Sam's face in his hands and forcing Sam's eyes to meet his. "I love you," he whispered sincerely, and a little bit desperately, giving Sam a tentative smile. He ran the pads of his thumbs over Sam's cheeks, warmth flooding throughout his system. "Did you hear that right? I. Love. You. I always have. I don't think I've ever loved anyone else the same, in my whole life. Just you. And I know you can do this. There are gonna be more accidents, definitely. I don't give a single shit, 'cause _I love you_. And I ain't leaving, just like I said. Got that? I might not have always shown it, but I believe in you, little brother. I believe in us, god damn it."

He stopped for breath, physically shaking with the toll his emotions were taking on him, all the bottled up things he'd suddenly set loose after a lifetime of safekeeping, of shoving down into a dark spot inside him. He felt relieved, and happy in a sort of unstable way. He was fucking tired, too, just about ready to pass out, but he was going to see Sam smile first and get him out of this poisonous room.

Sam looked at him, silent, still trembling, his mouth hanging open. He blinked once, leaning into the touch of Dean's hands. "Do you mean it?" he asked, hope transparent in his voice, his eyes.

Dean had used up all his words, so he settled for nodding instead, still smiling, hoping Sam would mirror his expression.

Sam tried out a twitchy smile, like a newborn horse on unsteady legs, his face gleaming with sweat but his eyes no longer full of pain. "I love you, too," he murmured, and that was enough for Dean.

Dean kissed him chastely on the lips, a quick peck, really, before starting on Sam's cuffs, undoing the straps to set Sam's wrists free. Sam watched his progress warily, keeping his arms in place, immobile. "Are you sure?" he sounded scared and distrusting of himself.

Dean paused, setting his hand against Sam's chest. "Mmhmm," he hummed in assent, winking at Sam, then undid the restraints at his ankles. Sam sat up lethargically, cracking his back and unable to keep his eyes from Dean's, the younger-brother awe shining out from his face. He looked his age, not like he'd been sent to the furthest circle of hell for centuries, and Dean relaxed, ruffling Sam's hair before standing.

"We'll sleep, and then we'll do something together, sound good?" Dean stated, the decision already made. "Keep your head from drifting off."

A determined look set itself in Sam's features, putting wrinkles in his forehead. He nodded at Dean, his hands twitching restlessly at his sides. "It won't happen again," he said, following Dean out of the panic room.

"You don't need to convince me," Dean said, holding the basement door open for Sam. They walked side-by-side through the house, and Dean slapped Sam's ass, startling a laugh out of him. "Now get your ass up to bed."

**  
**

THE WORDS, PART EIGHT (FIVE HOURS LATER) .

When Sam awoke, there was a note on the pillow beside him, telling him that Dean was out working on the Impala and he'd left breakfast on the table for Sam. He smiled at Dean's rushed scrawl, and the out-of-place smiley at the end, added like an afterthought. He unstuck the paper from the pillowcase, holding it precariously on the tips of his fingers. He got out of bed, kneeling at his duffel stashed in the corner. He placed the note inside, folding it carefully in half, then in half again. He grabbed some clothes and headed downstairs, snagging a muffin from the table before heading out the front door.

Standing on the porch, he stretched languidly, raising his hands far above his head. He luxuriated in the warmth and brightness of the day-- it was a welcome change from the rains and fogs of the past few weeks, felt like the bearer of good news, of a change. The sky was devoid of any clouds, and it was a stark, clear blue above him as he tromped down the stairs and into the yard.

He walked to the shed, hearing Dean's rumbling voice as he approached, and the buzzy noise of a wrench twisting something into place. Through the open door he could see the open hood of the Impala, Dean leaning against the grill, tossing a wrench into the toolbox at his feet. He was in a single oil-stained t-shirt, drenched in sweat. He had a phone cradled on one shoulder, his hands working with something inside the car's guts Sam couldn't quite see.

"I just want him to be okay, Bobby," Dean was sighing, and his words caused Sam to pause, lingering just out of eyesight. He felt guilty for eavesdropping, but not enough to walk in or turn back, afraid what Dean might hide from him or what he might miss.

He heard Dean screw a cap back on something. The hood of the Impala slammed down, and then the car squeaked lightly, most likely because Dean was sitting on the hood or something. "I know, god damn it," Dean said, sounding exasperated. Sam could picture him wiping a hand across his forehead, pushing away perspiration. "I know I've got to keep an eye on him, Bobby. You think I don't know that? But you can't bring Cas here, okay? You two have shit to work out. I can handle Sam. He's not going to kill again."

A pause.

"No, of course I don't know for sure. I said I'm watching him. Just give me this, okay? We're fine. I'm... I'm scared for him, yeah, but it's not like he's a damn lost cause or anything. He's my brother. We can-- we can do it."

Dean shifted, his boots echoing across the pavement. "Yeah, alright. Tell me if any more angels get hurt. Does Cas know the guy trying to take over? Hmm. Okay. Okay. Yeah, I promise. Seeya, Bobby."

Sam was jogging back the way he'd come before Dean finished talking, stepping back into the kitchen breathlessly. He was filled with a new, burning determination, a desire to show Dean he could do this. He wanted Dean to believe in him. The last thing he wanted to do was let Dean down again. That was a nightmare of his just as much as Lucifer was, possibly more so. He'd do anything to keep it from becoming a reality.

He set his jaw, frowning with his lips pursed and turning slowly in a circle, his hands on his hips. His mind was whirring, rushing through ideas and plans so quickly he could almost hear his brain humming like an overdriven computer.

A half-forgotten memory, a tiny, sharpened slice of hell slashed through his brain, making him stumble forward. He caught himself against the counter, bracing himself there. His hair fell in front of his face as he panted. He squeezed his fingers against the countertop too tightly, just to feel something grounding him. He hung onto the memory, even as it shook through him. It was an idea, something solid to work upon.

And it was the only memory he had of fighting Lucifer back and winning.

\--

He'd been holding onto the kitchen knife so long that it was slick with sweat and hot in his hand. He gripped it tightly, leaving red indentations in his palms. He could see the sigils clearly in his mind's eye, but wanted to do them right, to be safe. He had a journal he'd found on Bobby's shelves open on the kitchen floor in front of him, flipped past a couple months of entries to where it went blank, pretty early in the book. He would've been sad about it in some other time.

He scribbled with the hand that wasn't holding the knife, his hand wracking with tremors. It didn't stop him, his tongue peeking out of his mouth in concentration as he worked, erasing bits that he drew wrong or messily, his hand skittering the pencil off-kilter. He was surprised Dean hadn't come in yet. He kept checking the door out of the corner of his eye, only craning his neck slightly and acting loose and casual even though there wasn't anyone, hallucination or not, watching him.

Dropping the pencil to the floor, he breathed out heavily as he surveyed the circles and stars on the pages before him. He nodded to himself, satisfied, and rolled up his shirtsleeve, baring his left forearm and turning it so his hand was palms-up. He took the knife to the skin and pressed in lightly, with just enough force to well a single drop of bright red blood to the surface. He nodded again, a little more erratically, and bit down on his lip as he cut a deep line into his skin, turning it in a rough circle before starting on the latin inscription around the edges. It was barely legible, but he knew it would suffice.

His skin was burning persistently, as if he was leaning against a heated stove or something, but he ignored the sensation, persistence and mind winning out over matter. He started on the next sigil, more of a snake than a trapping box or a pentacle. It was hard to draw something curvy and sinuous, wincing as his blade slipped sideways under the skin and welled up a long line of thick blood, but he did it justice.

When he ran out of space on his left arm, he switched the blade to his left hand and tried a sigil on his right arm. He wasn't quite ambidextrous, making a mess of his arm and the drawing, so he put the blade back in the proper hand, now weak and aching from the torn skin. He started on his stomach, leaning back against the wall in the furthest corner of the room and rucking up his shirt. He managed four more intricate shapes, blurred and covered with his own oozing blood, before the front door swung open with a noisy creak.

Dean's eyes found the pencil on the floor, then moved into the study to the journal on the floor, and Sam.

Sam knew what he must look like. He straightened his shoulders, meeting Dean's panicked gaze defiantly as Dean raced over to him, grabbing him by his shoulders and staring at him, slackjawed.

"It's not what it looks like," Sam started, plowing on when Dean opened his mouth, "I'm not upset, I promise. These are all sigils I learned in hell, sigils I created. Enochian, Latin, animal-vegetable-mineral. They kept Lucifer back sometimes. They took Michael away completely, after two thousand years. These will-- these will help protect me, so you don't have to do it so much. It doesn't hurt, I promise."

Dean was ripping off his own shirt while Sam spoke, tying some of it around Sam's forearm and pressing the rest into Sam's stomach, looking angry when Sam didn't wince or shake, not meeting Sam’s eyes.

"I know you're upset," Sam whispered, searching Dean’s face, trying to sound soothing and mimicking Dean's comforting tone, "but the scars will help. They're deep enough to last but not need stitches. I'm sorry I scared you. But I had to do this."

"You could've told me," Dean finally spat, glaring at Sam with wet eyes, more worried than angry. "We could've done something else."

"It means more, as scar tissue," Sam said distantly, remembering bleaker things. He turned back to Dean, blinking rapidly to bring himself back to the present. "I would like some tattoos, though."

Dean looked like he wanted to argue, but nodded instead, helping Sam to his feet, looking bizarrely relieved when Sam winced and held an arm to his stomach, moving arthritically over to the stairs. He knew where Dean wanted him without Dean having to say it, knew that their medical kit was still stashed up in their room.

He sat obediently on the bed, letting Dean strip him and clean away the blood, disinfecting the wounds before covering them with gauze. When Dean turned to grab more antiseptic, Sam reached for his laptop on the nightstand, tugging it into his lap and powering it on. He looked over himself in the reflection of the screen before it lit up. "I'm halfway to mummy," he murmured, and Dean let out a small smile despite himself.

Their eyes met over the laptop, and Dean paused his ministrations, his face softening. Sam smiled. "That makes you Evelyn," he pointed out, giving Dean a dirty grin.

Dean chucked. "Trust me, I'm not complaining," he said distractedly, eyebrows scrunching together in concentration as he finished dressing the last injury, a real bleeder, up in the crook of Sam's elbow.

Sam typed rapidly away, his eyes scanning across the screen. "There's a tattoo shop on Main Street, decent rates," he told Dean.

Dean sighed, turning his back to Sam and disposing of the bloodied debris left over from cleaning Sam up. He slid the med kit under the other bed, then came back, prying the laptop from Sam's fingers before shutting it and setting it back on the nightstand.

"We'll go tomorrow," he said, leaning forward and pushing Sam's hair behind his ear. "You sure you're okay?"

"I'm sorry," Sam replied earnestly, putting his puppydog eyes to good use, "and yes, I am. Cuddle?"

Dean laughed, loud and stark amongst their quiet conversation, and started undoing his belt. To stop from getting too flustered by it, Sam turned his back to Dean, snuggling under the covers on his side, staring out the window at the evening world, all lilacs and pinks and deep, coasting blues.

The bed dipped beneath Dean's weight, and then there was a solid warmth at Sam's back, breaths dusting against his neck. An arm looped around his waist, and then he was being carefully tucked against a body, one of Dean's legs slipping between his. Dean sighed, pressing his nose into Sam's hair and breathing in. Sam wiggled back against his brother, settling into a comfortable position. Even though he'd slept most of the day, his eyes were drooping heavily, his thoughts tripping and bumping into one another. The events of the past seventy-two hours were catching up with him quickly, leaving him exhausted all over again.

"I always liked being your little spoon," he slurred, yawning, before slipping away into a dreamless sleep to the feeling of Dean's chest shaking as he chuckled.

\--

Sam's sigil tattoos were numerous, varying in size, color, location, and origin. He slipped a few personal tattoos in, mainly because he knew Dean wouldn't fault him this. The process took a little over a week until they were all finished, and he was sent home with bottles of lotion and strict instructions to follow for the upcoming weeks.

He sat heavily down on the couch, his skin buzzing everywhere. Dean plopped down next to him, a small space between them where there usually wasn't. Dean was afraid of his tattoos in a way, expecting them to turn on Sam and poison him or disappear altogether as some kind of perverted cosmic joke. Dean put a hand on Sam's thigh to make up for the distance, and Sam relaxed a little, leaning back against the cushions and closing his eyes.

The silence that ensued was more stilted than comfortable, so he opened up one eye to see Dean staring at him as if he were an alien specimen, pinned to board for examining and figuring out. "What?" he asked, trying to keep the bristle out of his voice.

"Just never took you as much of a tattoo person," Dean said, eyes wide. "It's gonna take some getting used to."

"They're hot though, right?" Sam said cheesily, elbowing Dean in the stomach.

Dean rolled his eyes. "Seeing as they're all covered up right now, still waiting on the verdict for that one."

A second later, he was more serious, his pupils dilated and gaze dark. "Tell me about all of them," he ordered, his voice low.

Sam wiggled, feeling pleased yet still scrutinized. He could see his own body planned out. He pointed to his left arm. "Not really a sleeve, but sort of close. Concentric circle-style sigils, four of them linking together, like a chain. They each mean protection of the mind, body, soul, and love. Enochian. His finger moved down to his pulse point. "Just a devil's trap, the more complex St. James version, with the scorpion. I just thought it looked nicer."

There were more sigils on his left arm, but they were all simple Enochian wards and chants, so he brushed lightly over them before moving on, switching hands to point at his right arm. "A snake, coiling all the way up my arm, a Latin prayer up its back. I can't remember the symbolism entirely, only that it helps keep the snake out of the garden. On the other side, a vine curling down around my wrist. It's a supplement to the snake. It's all biblical stuff, doesn't work the same way as basic sigils, more like a pendant or a charm, really. These geometric shapes and the things that look sorta like crosses and letters, are reverse-summons for a bunch of common and higher-level demons. Keeps them not only out of my skin, but away. You might want to get some like that."

Sam pointed to his heart. "D.W., looking like you carved it in, because I could. The Roman numerals for five-thousand and thirty-five, for every year I spent in the pit. Dad's name, mom's name, Adam's name, as a reminder." His hand moved lower across his abdomen. "One big sigil here. It's one of the ones I created from nothing, not from Latin, Enochian, Babylonian roots, or otherwise. There's a phoenix in the center, covered in bars. The words on the edges switch between English, Latin, Greek, and Enochian. It's a prayer I would sing to myself when I had the mind to. The pendant in it's talon is yours, I think you can tell. The flames on the tail are in a circle, like holy fire, entrapping an angel. Just below it I have the angel-banishing sigil, altered a little bit to be like the anti-possession tattoo. I think you should get one of those, too." He pointed to his hip. "Your gun, because it's protects me, like you do. I made sure the dude got the engraving right. On the other hip is my gun. It's poetic, okay? Don't make fun."

"And on your back?" Dean prodded.

Sam smiled. "I'm too tired to point, but there're more Enochian angel traps between my shoulderblades. Lower on my back, there's 1979 and 1983, with two clasped hands. That's the one you designed, but you know that. 'Your own protection sigil', you said. You just wanted to hear me say it."

Dean beamed. "Damn right I did. Is that all of them?"

Sam nodded. "Besides a bit of latin on my fingers, yeah."

Dean looked him up and down. "I can't wait to touch them all," he said, his eyes eating Sam up, half love, half arousal.

Sam blushed, folding his hands in his lap. "You have to be patient or else we'll ruin them and they won't work. And if they don't work then I might slip and ruin everyth-"

"Hey, hey, hey," Dean squeezed his thigh, patting him. "I know, okay? I have an upstairs brain, you know. Don't worry, Sammy. Your scars and tattoos will be just fine."

Sam smiled tightly, embarrassed. "I hope so."

Dean moved his hand to Sam's squeezing it as gingerly as possible, being careful to avoid the bandages. "I know so." he said emphatically, taking Sam's breath away with the green of his eyes.

Sam bit his lip, meeting Dean's gaze, the adoration open in both of their eyes. It was refreshing to Sam-- he was used to hiding this gaze, sneaking pining glances at Dean in the car or behind his back, convinced his fucked-up feelings were unrequited. To be able to cast away any worry and just... love Dean, it made him feel free, shedding the last remnants of the cage.

It was a glorious feeling.

He sat up straighter when an idea struck him, a memory.

"I think we have to do something," he said, eyes sharp and gleaming. He turned to Dean. "To banish Lucifer, for fucking good, angel's grace inside me or not."

Dean raised an eyebrow, regarding Sam with interest. "I'm listening," he said, putting his feet up on the coffee table and waiting for Sam to continue.

Sam stood up instead, holding out a hand. Dean paused, but took it and got up, eyeing Sam curiously.

"Wait here," Sam said, squeezing Dean's shoulder before running in the other direction and thundering up the stairs. He sprinted into their room, sliding onto his knees before his duffel bag. He took out his lighter. He went back downstairs, hair askew. "Where can we get some gasoline?" he panted.

Dean frowned. "In the garage. Why? Are we starting a bonfire?"

Sam couldn't stop the smile from splitting his face apart. "Hell yes," he said, out the front door in seconds.

He heard Dean follow after him, pausing only a couple seconds before joining Sam as he hauled firewood from the back of the house to the center of the junkyard, where there was a wide, open space. Only a few days ago Dean had toiled over a bonfire here by himself, cleaning up evidence. He bit his lip, trying to push away thoughts of that night. This was supposed to be a good moment.

Not long after they started working, they had a considerable pile built, one Sam deemed sufficient. Dean poured gasoline over the sticks, and Sam flicked his lighter open before tossing it onto the pyre and setting it alight.

He reached into his shirt and pulled out the leather cord with the wooden, bloodstained cross on it. Every morning he put it on mindlessly, exactly how Lucifer had been puppeteering him for so long, still so controlled that he could never get himself to take it off for good.

Until now.

He stared down at it, heat from the fire making the air waver before him, his eyes stinging and tearing up. He could feel a familiar, vindictive rage boiling alive inside him, and forced it down, knowing the damage it could wreak. He closed his fist around the necklace, the start of his sin, before chucking it onto the fire and watching it disappear into the flames.

"We built that whole damn thing just for a puny necklace?" Dean asked, incredulous.

Sam nodded, his face set tight and grim with conviction. "We needed to," he said, just as the flames popped and whined, turning blue as they soared to the sky, impossibly hot.

Dean swore and stepped back, yanking Sam by the forearm to force him backward when he'd stayed frozen, mesmerized by the fire. The flames crackled, reaching high over their heads and sending heat waves out among the cars. The windshield popped and exploded in the nearest car, sending shards of glass down like snowflakes all around it. Dean's hand never left Sam's arm, gripping tighter with each pop of the flames.

Sam started laughing when the flames died back down to a manageable size, hugging Dean tight enough to squeeze the breath out of him.

"Fuck him," Dean croaked, hugging Sam back just as fiercely, "he's fucking gone, so fuck him."

Sam pulled back, sliding his hands along Dean's arms in a lingering touch. He pulled Dean toward him again, but this time to bring him in for a soft kiss, his arms wrapping around Dean's neck. Dean sighed into the kiss, his hands running distractedly up and down Sam's sides, nuzzling Sam's neck with his nose when they broke apart.

"There's still one more thing we have to do," Sam whispered, their noses knocking as they stared into each other's eyes, enclosed together in their own little world, backed by fire.

"Yeah?" Dean whispered back, his grip on Sam's hips tightening. "And what's that, christening all of this, huh Sammy?" He winked.

Sam giggled when Dean winked. "No, you perv," he said, pushing Dean away from him. He took Dean's hand before walking back up to the house. "Just follow me."

Dean jogged a bit to be right by his side, keeping his hand in Sam's. Sam looked down for a moment, stunned, his step faltering before he started grinning like a lunatic, blushing at Dean and his swollen, shiny kissed lips. He squeezed Dean's hand and started moving faster.

"Sap," Dean accused, but his voice was soft and thick.

Sam didn't respond, only led Dean through the house and up into the bathroom. He got the shears out of his travel bag and handed them to Dean before sitting down on the toilet seat.

Dean eyed the scissors like they were a gun. "You sure...?" he asked, stepping in front of Sam.

Sam nodded. "It's too long, now, it's all tangled and falling past my shoulders. It reminds me of him. Please do it? It's another thing to push him out."

Dean bobbed his head. "Okay, Sammy. Just hold still." He put a towel on Sam's neck and started carefully combing and trimming, wincing with Sam when he had to tug hard to unfurl a knot. The soft hair amassed at his feet, more than he thought there'd be. He'd cut it slightly shorter than Sam had worn it when he fell, curling up around his ears. He had slight bangs falling into his eyes. He looked less like some haggard Jesus-wannabe than he had before, and more like Sam.

Besides his new tattoos and scars, the only major difference was his weight-- he was still wiry and gawky, noticeably underweight, his ribs still standing out starkly against his skin whenever he was shirtless. Dean kept trying to shove food into Sam, but nothing ever really took.

"I'm done," Dean said, and Sam instantly read the nervousness in his voice, standing up quickly, the towel falling from his shoulders. He shuffled past Dean to stare in the mirror, turning his head back and forth and running his fingers through it.

"Well?"

Sam smiled at Dean through the mirror. "Thank you," he said, turning around and leaning against the sink. "I know it sounds stupid, but I feel a little bit more like myself, now. Who I was."

Dean leaned down and pushed Sam's hair behind one ear. He kissed his nose. "Not stupid," he said, ruffling Sam's hair before turning away and heading into their room.

"You ruined your own masterpiece!" Sam squawked, taking the comb and putting his hair back in place.

"Look who's mister high maintenance," Dean rumbled, slipping out of the room and into the hall before Sam could swat him.

When Sam came down after cleaning the mess in the bathroom, his bandages were off, baring the sleeves running down his arms to the world. His shirt was rolled up to his elbows, so Dean was only given a peek of the pinked skin and deep, contrasting lines that were swirling around on Sam’s arms. He pretended to be busy in the kitchen to stop himself from drooling on Sam, whistling some song Sam vaguely recognized as Led Zeppelin as he stirred something on the stove, tapping the spoon against the edge of the bowl in time with the beat.

"Whatcha making?" Sam asked, taking a seat.

"Just pasta," Dean said. "The stupid bowtie kind you like so much."

Sam huffed. "No dissing the bowties. They're easy to stab and they hold the sauce well."

Dean scoffed. "You just like that they're bowties," he accused.

"Nothing wrong with that," Sam defended, getting up and grabbing two beers from the fridge, opening them against the counter. He handed one to Dean before sitting back down, sprawling in his chair and sighing. He looked around the house, at the pictures hanging in the kitchen, the couch in the study, the sunlight beaming down the hall. The front door was open, and through the screen door he could see Bobby's driveway, surrounded by cars and wind chimes and other little knickknacks.

It took him a moment to realize this was his home now. It had been a safe haven for most of his life, but now they were living here, reforming their lives after they'd been blown to ashes. It might not be his house forever. The odds were against that. He'd probably hunt again, once he got better. Bobby would come back, a little worse for wear, telling tales of angels fighting and miracles going wrong all over the country. Life would spin on in the same way it had before he went to hell, as it had while he was gone.  Only this time, there was no apocalypse to avert, no deal to break or yellow-eyed demon to track down. It was a comforting sort of normalcy, just him, Dean, and the universe, and he would welcome it with open arms.

It was something he could definitely get used to.

**  
**

THE WORDS, PART NINE (THIRTY MINUTES LATER) .

Sam had left the kitchen thirty minutes ago, a barely-touched bowl cooling on the table. He'd said he was going out to get some fresh air, which was normal enough, but nowadays all it took was half an hour of no word from Sam to have Dean imagining worst-case scenarios in his head, each one more grisly than the last.

_He's probably fine. He's being Sam, all poetic and deep and introspective, probably gazing at flowers or some shit._ Dean repeated these thoughts in his head as he swiftly cleaned up the table and headed outside after Sam. Just to check on him, really. No urgency at all.

His purposefully casual steps became a jog when he didn't see Sam immediately. He didn't want to call his name- that was more of a red-alert type thing- so he ran between the rows and piles of cars instead, scanning for a tall floppy-haired person, hopefully sitting on the hood of some classic car with a daisy in his fist.

Dean tripped to a halt when he saw a pair of legs near the northeast corner of the yard. He rounded a bend and saw Sam lying on his back in the dirt, his face composed and peaceful, free of any wrinkle lines or frowns. His hair fanned out around his head and his arms were at his sides, like he'd just decided to take a nap near a pile of fucking carburetors.

If only it was that innocent and lighthearted of an explanation.

Dean got down onto his knees, hovering over Sam, his hands freezing up before they could touch. He was worried that he could startle Sam, or set him off, maybe finally see him in the dead mindset that turned him into a thoughtless killer.

"Sam?" he said, setting a hand down on his shoulder and shaking him lightly. Sam didn't stir in the slightest at his touch, his head rolling limply to the side, mouth parting slightly.

"Sammy," Dean said louder, bending over Sam and cupping his face, rattling it. "Sammy!"

Sam's eyes fluttered open, his mouth falling open wider, and Dean became... distracted. Sam was so beautiful, with his long eyelashes and green-brown-blue eyes that changed color with his mood. His mouth was like a perfect cupid's bow, frequently bracketed by deep dimples, and his cheekbones were high and feminine, giving his face a sort of unusual, catlike quality. Dean kept his hands on Sam's face, staring at the boy he was smitten with. He couldn't exactly place when he'd fallen so in love with Sam, in actual love, not just brotherly affection or platonic adoration. His entire life was a blur of Sam-- taking care of Sam, teaching Sam, being proud of Sam, crying over Sam's corpse. He'd always felt a fucked up desperation to be near him, to hold him, to keep him safe and destroy anything that tried to come near him, only now the desperation was worse, was thicker with love. He didn't just want to be near him, he wanted to be inside him, he wanted Sam's hands on his body, pulling him closer, his lips on his own. He wanted to claim him, to mark him, to live and die right by his side.

It felt more like a natural progression or obvious end result than something fucked up, something sick and rotten. It felt simple and clear to love Sam, to close the gap from brother to lover. Sam was more than a brother to him. For lack of something less cliche, Sam was his everything. He was pretty sure they were the only two people to walk their whole lives together, alone, leaning on each other in times that would lead most people to suicide. He could remember Ash's words, how they were soulmates, sharing one heaven together. Winchesterland.

Dean wanted to create that on Earth. He wanted to stop restraining himself from being open with Sam. He wanted to let all of it out, the fear, the anger, the indignation at their lives, but mostly, the raw love. He wanted to stop being scared of baring his soul to Sam, even though he knew Sam already saw him all the way through.

Slight fingers curled around his wrist, and Dean noticed he was still leaning over Sam, still cupping his face, and Sam was staring up at him silently, questioningly, the fingers moving a little tighter around his hand, pressing into his pulse point.

"Sorry," Dean whispered, pulling his hands back. He could still feel the softness of Sam's face as he leaned back on his haunches, and he was fucking tired, just from having that moment inside his head. He cleared his throat and held out a hand, pulling himself and Sam to their feet.

"What-- what happened?" Sam asked in a small, quivering voice, blinking rapidly and staring around at the junkyard as if he didn't recognize it. He shuffled closer to Dean until their shoulders touched, shooting him a scared-little-boy look before biting his lip, waiting for Dean to speak. And, by the way his face looked, he was waiting for the disappointment in Dean's voice.

"I don't know," Dean replied. "You went out for some air and after awhile I went out to check on you and you were just... lying there."

"I wish I didn't need checking up on," Sam snapped, his mouth set in a line, his eyes going bright and shiny. "It hasn't even been twelve hours since we burned the damn necklace and did everything and I'm still like this." His eyes went distant as he remembered something, his shoulders beginning to twitch as he looked bleakly out over the yard.

"Hey," Dean said roughly, tugging on Sam's sleeve and forcing Sam to face him, "stop fucking beating yourself up, okay? Did you think that all your problems would just be magically solved, Sam? That all the memories would just up and disappear like some bullshit fairy tale?"

Sam flinched, his face scrunching up in hurt as he opened his mouth to speak, a single tear sliding down his cheek, but Dean plowed right on. "I know it helped. You were happier, Sam, don't let that get away from you. But bad shit's still gonna happen. Hell, I'd be concerned if you were the posterboy for mental health after standing in front of a fucking bonfire. This is still gonna be an uphill battle, but that doesn't mean it ain't worth it. Look, I... I care, okay? Even when you have bad days. I need you to be here with me, Sam. Even when shit gets really bad, I need you to fight it, you hear me?"

Sam nodded slowly, the emotions all slowly draining out of his face as he listened to Dean until only tiredness was left. "I know, I just thought I would be given a little more time before my head broke again."

Dean sighed, rubbing a hand up and down Sam's arm. "Me too, Sammy. What... what did happen? Do you remember?"

Sam frowned, and he was leaning into Dean's touch, unconsciously seeking comfort. "I think it was just... memories. Like a whole slideshow of greatest hits. It just knocked me over, 's all. I can still feel his hands all over me, cutting, and in..." Sam choked up and coughed, trailing off.

"Well, let's fix that then, huh?" Dean grabbed Sam's arm and pulled him along, weaving them through the junkers until they were back inside Bobby's house. He pushed Sam down onto the couch and ordered him to stay still before moving into the kitchen and pouring Sam a glass of water. He handed it to Sam, and sat down beside him, making sure he drank enough.

Sam shivered, setting the empty glass down on the side table. Dean was instantly there, crowding into his space, rubbing at his shoulders and smoothing his hair down, nuzzling the place where his ear met his neck with his nose. Sam whined, pushing him away and scooting into the corner of the couch, his legs drawn up on the cushions and his back pressing into the armrest. Dean leaned back, confused, poking Sam in the leg. "Mind tellin' me what's going on in that head of yours?"

"Why are you so... good?" Sam groused. "You're always so patient and loving, even when I'm a burden."

"You're not a burden," Dean told him immediately.

Sam regarded him coolly out of the corner of his eye. "So killing someone and leaving you to clean up the bloody mess isn't burdening you?"

Dean was proud when he hardly recoiled at the words, glaring back. "I'm not really that strong, Sam. Only for you."

Sam sat up straighter, looking distraught. He opened his arms up and Dean obediently moved forward. They shifted around until Dean was sitting the vee of Sam's legs, Sam's arms around him. "You don't always have to be strong," Sam whispered in his ear. "I never even thought about what this was like for you. I should be able to take care of you, too."

Dean wiggled, trying to fight against how Sam was easily breaking down his walls. "Sammy..."

"Shh," Sam whispered, and Dean really wished it hadn't gone right down his dick because he knew this was a big moment for Sam. "Just rest up, okay? I'm here. I'm not gonna leave you, either."

Dean let out the breath he didn't know he was holding, relaxing back into Sam's grip, feeling Sam's steady heartbeat at his back. Sam hummed, satisfied, and moved his hands away from Dean's to run through his hair, scratching at his scalp. "Talk," Sam prodded, tapping the crown of Dean’s head. "Whatever you have to say, I can take it."

"It is hard," Dean started, unsure of what else to say. He shut and opened his mouth, searching for the right words to say. "And I wanna go on and talk about how it's worth it, but I know that's not what you want me to say. I just want to protect you, okay? And here you have to go, being all kindhearted and caring and shit."

Sam laughed once, but stayed quiet, and Dean knew he would have to give in to Sam's gentle encouraging sooner or later.

"When you were gone..." Dean swallowed thickly. "That's when I think I really knew that I loved you more than I should. Because every single stupid moment was just fucking excruciating. Yeah, I looked for ways to get you out, even when you told me not to. Hell, I fucking found a book that would raise Lucifer, just so you could get let out too, you know? I didn't fucking care. I just wanted you back, even if the world had to get destroyed first. With Ben and Lisa, I was the burden, Sam. I didn't speak. Or eat or sleep. I only drank myself fucking stupid every single night. And then, you were back... but you didn't know me, and you were like some scared animal, and then with Cas you were just screaming and screaming until your voice cracked and I just..." Dean broke off, rolling his shoulders to push away the heavy grief threatening to shroud him.

"It was like you weren't back at all," he finally sighed. "You were still in hell, you were still messed up, and here I was, fucking useless, still unable to do jack shit about what was happening to you. All I ever wanted to do was protect you, keep you safe. And now every single day I see you and I see a reminder of how I failed. You shouldn't have ever been hurt, much less hurt in ways I can't even comprehend. You're just... you deserve heaven, Sammy, and look what you got instead."

He had to force the last few words out, and then he was gasping, his vision blurring. Sam was murmuring something to him in a cracking, thick, and wrecked voice, pulling him closer against his chest, warming him up, but Dean couldn't hear him. He hadn't even realized just how much he'd kept bottled up inside him-- the love and lust was one thing, but this was another monster inside of him completely. He'd never opened himself quite so much, and he felt raw and sensitive, but Sam was taking care of him, was touching him and he wasn't disappointed in him. He wasn't disgusted at what Dean had told him, only understanding.

The love that surged through him was unexpected, and then he was smiling instead of crying, his face red and blotchy as he turned in Sam's arms and kissed him sweetly, pushing Sam’s chin up and biting at his bottom lip, urging his mouth open and kissing him in a way that could only ever mean love, deep and meaningful and real. He broke apart, breathing the same air as Sam, and rushed forward, nuzzling Sam's neck like a crazy puppy. Sam was laughing, his arms running up and down Dean's back like he didn't quite know what to do with them.

"God," Dean murmured, his lips pressed against Sam's warm, living skin, "god, Sammy, you don't even know."

"I think I do," Sam whispered back, slipping his hands up Dean's shirt to touch him skin-to-skin.

Dean wrapped himself around his brother, pressing as much of himself against Sam as he could manage, and felt Sam bury his face in his shoulder, breathing him in as he was breathing in Sam.

"Thank you," Dean hissed, emotion threatening to capsize him again, but Sam simply held him tighter, rocking him slightly, and there was nowhere else in the entire damn universe that Dean would rather be.

\--

After forty minutes, the best spot in the universe became awkward and cramping,  making Dean's joints ache. He looked up at Sam, who was looking across the room with a thousand-yard-stare, lost somewhere else entirely, but it didn't look worrying. His face was passive and comfortable looking, not tight and pinched with fear and suspicion.

"Sam," Dean said, and Sam turned to him, his eyes gradually clearing up as he looked down and recognized Dean, smiling slightly.

Unable to resist, Dean reached up and traced Sam's bottom lip, pushing the tip of his index finger into Sam's mouth. Sam opened up pliantly, which drove Dean absolutely nuts, and he pulled back, sliding his hand across Sam's chin, feeling the small fuzz of hair that had started to grow there.

"Wanna go up to bed?" Dean asked, his voice rougher than he'd intended, and Sam's eyes widened comically but he nodded, sitting up straighter as Dean untangled himself from Sam's limbs, standing up and stretching languidly. He watched Sam rise in his periphery, loitering about uncertainly, his cheeks quickly heating up with color. Dean shrugged once, trying to alleviate the tension stringing the room taut, but it only made Sam look more worried, so he turned and headed for the stairs, listening to Sam move behind him, right on his heels.

It felt like they were newlyweds on their honeymoon, the implication was so obvious; the suggestion so palpable. The walk up the stairs felt years longer than a few short seconds, and then they were in the bedroom, the bed looming up before them like some omen or something.

Dean couldn't help but laugh, turning to Sam. Sam was blushing redder than before, all the way up to the tips of his ears, turning his nose bright pink. "Sammy," Dean chuckled, shaking his head, "it's-- it's just you n' me, right? It's not your fuckin' funeral or something. It's supposed to be good, right? Huh?"

"I dunno, is it?" Sam wheedled quietly, and it took Dean a second to realize it was a joke. He shook his head, reaching forward to take Sam's hand. He started walking toward the bed but Sam didn't budge, yanking Dean backward when Dean tried to move.

Dean frowned, raising an eyebrow, and Sam had done a one-eighty from seconds before, looking stricken with embarrassment and panic, shifting from foot to foot and looking over Dean's shoulder instead of meeting his eyes. "Okay, I know I'm overreacting, but," Sam swallowed. "But the last time I did this... it wasn't because I wanted to and it was with someone really bad and its been so long that I just..." Sam looked miserable, smiling tightly and falsely, shrugging helplessly.

"Hey, I totally get that," Dean jumped in quickly, moving into Sam's space and taking both of his hands in his own, "and we don't have to do anything if you don't wanna. Seriously, kiddo, I'm not gonna force you to do anything. No more of that. Just... it's me, alright? You know I'd never do something to hurt you. We'd take it slow."

Sam blew out a long breath, ducking his head and scratching idly at the back of his head. "I feel so stupid," he confessed after a beat, his voice barely above a whisper.

Dean pulled Sam closer, leaning forward and nipping at Sam's neck, at his ear lobe. "You're the smartest person I know," he said in a hushed voice, sincerity accenting each word.

Sam shivered, shaking his head and wrapping his arms around Dean's waist so they were flush. "Not anymore."

Dean scoffed, the breath puffing at Sam's neck. "You're still the same brilliant man I've always known, you bitch."

Sam sniffled wetly, squeezing Dean's hips. He opened his mouth to speak several times, his breaths stilted and wispy, until he finally managed a tight whisper, leaning forward and rubbing his cheek against Dean's. "Jerk."

Dean felt oddly full at that moment, like they'd come full circle somehow, that some final little shard had just fitted itself back into the whole of their lives. He wasted no time in rearing his head back and moving to kiss Sam, more chastely than he had on the couch, close-mouthed.

He was startled but definitely not protesting when Sam was the one who took control of the kiss, deepening it, pressing his tongue into Dean's mouth and up against Dean's tongue, moaning in the back of his throat when Dean's hand came up to slide through his hair and tug at it, angling Sam's mouth for better access.

Sam panted into Dean’s mouth when they pulled apart to breathe, and Dean watched him in an infatuated haze, Sam blurred from being only millimeters apart from Dean. He was close enough to taste and smell.

Dean stared as Sam squeezed his eyes shut tight and pressed his mouth closed, huffing and leaning forward to nuzzle Dean’s cheek and neck enthusiastically, his hands sliding up beneath Dean’s shirt to palm at the base of his spine, sliding up to the dip between his shoulder blades.

“God,” Sam groaned, pressing his nose into the smooth skin of Dean’s shoulder, his mouth ghosting over Dean’s collarbone and making him shiver, “you have no idea… how long… I’ve wanted this. Feels like my whole life, Dean.”

Dean laughed, petting Sam's hair with his other hand looped around Sam's waist, walking them both backward, toward the bed. "Believe me, Sammy, I know exactly what you mean."

Sam pulled away from his attempts at burying himself in Dean's skin and grinned softly at Dean, still blushing. Dean's eyes fell down to Sam's lips, bright pink and shiny and swollen from their make out session. He'd seen Sam's lips before, sure, he'd even admired them before, kissed them before. This time, he wanted to take the time to savor and appreciate every single piece of Sam's body, so he didn't move, his calves bumping against the mattress. He stared openly, appreciating how wide Sam's lips were, like a singer's mouth. They weren't thin, either, instead plush and wide and entirely too kissable.

"You're gawking," Sam finally whispered, but when Dean glanced up at his eyes, they were roving over his body as well. He could almost physically feel them bump over the smattering of freckles across the bridge of his nose before going down to his own lips. Sam's mouth fell open, his tongue peeking out and swiping across his bottom lip.

Dean's heart started stuttering around. It felt so thrilling to be able to love so openly and be loved so openly back. By Sam. There were still niggling thoughts in the back of his head, about how it was wrong and he was cutting himself open too wide for Sam to see, that Sam would inevitably discover Dean was nothing worth loving. About how he should pull away and act normal, take it all back and take to the roads with Sam.

They were all quickly overpowered and discarded when Sam placed a hand on Dean's chest, softly and tentatively, smoothing out the rumples in his shirt and feeling the warmth of Dean's body soak through the fabric. Dean breathed out a little erratically, and Sam bit his lip, pulling his hand back.

"No," Dean burst, taking Sam's slim wrist in his hand and drawing his hand back to his chest. "I don't want you to be afraid to touch me. I want this to be okay."

He wasn't aware his voice had cracked until the sympathy appeared on Sam's face, pulling his lips into a frown and covering his eyes with a slight sheen. He smiled again, compassionately, as if he was the one who was supposed to be doing the encouraging. He put his hand back with more determination, sliding his hand down until it fell to Dean's right hip. He squeezed there, pulling him closer until their belts were clicking against each other, and the dark, wide look was back in Sam's eyes.

Any and all doubts cast into the wind, Dean backed up until his ass hit the bed, and he crawled backward until he was resting on one of the pillows, lying on his back. Sam followed him immediately, crawling up and over him, his hands braced on either side of Dean's ribs. Dean sat up, knocking his nose against Sam and causing him to laugh. He shrugged out of his shirt, throwing it into the corner of the room. Sam began to help him, tugging his undershirt up over his shoulders and pushing it off the bed. Dean wasted no time in ripping open the buttons on Sam's shirt. They fumbled for a second, the shirt catching on Sam's elbows before it was finally tugged free, and only moments later Sam was bare-chested, his tattoos dark and shadowed in the low lighting.

Dean whistled appreciatively, sliding the palm of his hand over the design of the phoenix and watching how Sam's belly went concave. He'd forgotten Sam was sensitive there, ticklish to the point of near-suffocation and tears. He wondered if he could use the sensitivity to his advantage, and put his hands into the small of Sam's back, right above his ass. He pulled him closer until they were skin-to-skin, Sam's face hovering above his, the tips of his hair brushing lightly against Dean's face.

"Tell me what you're thinking," Dean murmured, running his hands up and down Sam's back and feeling his quick breaths in the slight presses of Sam's chest against his.

"That this is crazy," Sam breathed, looking down at him unblinkingly.

Dean reached up and tucked a curl of Sam's hair behind his hair, making the look in Sam's eyes soften. "Good crazy or bad crazy?"

Sam bit down on his lip to stifle the smile. "Good crazy, you loser," he scoffed.

"Hey!" Dean raised his eyebrows in a look of mock surprise. "Had to make sure, s'all."

"Yeah," Sam agreed, his voice distant. His eyes began to water, and Dean frowned, pulling his hands away.

"If he's still messin' with you, then we really don't have to-"

Sam leaned down and kissed him softly, with the kind of kiss that sets hundreds of doves alight in a summer sky or starts the chorus of a romantic song, the entire world singing with love and happily-ever-afters like a Disney movie. Each cliche Dean thought of didn't encapsulate the half of it, the emotions that somehow transferred between the two of them as Dean opened his mouth and breathed against Sam's. Sam reached down and pressed Dean's hands back to his shoulders. Dean took the hint right away, rubbing up and down and pushing Sam down against him, making more skin meet skin and deepening the kiss.

Dean's breath hitched and he dragged Sam down to him by the bottom lip, sucking on it urgently as Sam moaned above him and slid his tongue into Dean's mouth, running over his teeth and against his tongue.

Dean was having a sensory overload. Sam's skin was so fucking soft, warm against his chest and under his fingertips, muscles flexing and moving under the surface as Sam adjusted and tried to press more of himself down against Dean. It was driving him crazy. Not to mention the kissing, which was forcing all the blood away from Dean's head and straight down to his dick.

He breathed quickly through his nose, wrapping his arms around Sam's neck but forcing his hips to keep still, begging his cock to stay half hard. He didn't want it to be over too soon. He didn't want it to be just a quick fuck, something to get him off. That was probably the polar opposite of what both of them really needed. He was going to take his damn time. He was going to learn every inch of Sam's skin, memorize each and every dip that made Sam tense and moan or sag against him and sigh blissfully. He was going to make it good for Sam. This night was all about Sam, and it was only a bonus that Dean would probably feel pleasure, too.

If he could get himself to stop thinking with his dick.

He allowed Sam's tongue in his mouth, and fucked his own against it, but didn't deepen the kiss any further. He lay back, keeping his arms still and secure around Sam, letting Sam decide and control everything they did. Right now, Sam seemed content with just kissing, sighing and puffing breaths out his nose as he continued tilting his head, lapping into Dean's mouth and sucking at his lips until they were red and sensitive. He was hard, the length of him pressing against Dean's thigh, but he didn't move his hips, only shifting to aid with how he was exploring every inch of Dean's mouth.

Without warning, Sam drew back, their mouths making a wet sound as they separated. Sam licked the spit from around his lips, and Dean couldn't stop the little jolt his hips did, staring up at Sam straddling him, looking all debauched and pink and shiny, practically glowing with it. Sam smiled down at him, pleased and slightly feral.

"What do you want me to do?" Dean rumbled, his voice deep and rough with arousal.

Sam leaned forward again, until their noses were brushing, staring into Dean's eyes. Dean stared right back, letting out a little gasp when Sam rolled his hips experimentally, pausing to push Dean's roaming hands lower, past his belt and onto his ass. "Touch me," Sam breathed into Dean's mouth before kissing him again, his mouth wide against Dean's, the kiss slow and dirty and causing Dean's dick to push against the material of his jeans.

Dean obeyed Sam, palming his ass and rutting slowly up against him, his breath getting caught in his throat at how good it felt. His head fell back against the pillow and he shut his eyes tightly as Sam moved sinuously above him, pressing his cock right up against Dean's, the pressure of his jeans unbearable.

Sam moved away from Dean's mouth to nibble at his bared adam's apple, licking and sucking down the column of his throat. Dean whined, and cut himself off, flushing with embarrassment, but Sam only purred, still rubbing and rolling his hips to meet with Dean's.

Dean swore and put a hand on Sam's chest, pushing him up. "I'm sorry," he panted, placing a hand on the buckle of Sam's belt, "but these need to come off right the fuck now."

Sam chucked, but drew up and away until he was sitting back on his haunches over Dean. He tugged his belt off easily, sliding it through the loops before chucking it into the corner of the room. Dean moved his hands forward to help Sam undo the buttons on his jeans, but Sam swatted him away, keen to put on a show. He slid his pants down to his thighs before lifting himself up slightly to remove them completely. His dick was pressing up against the thin material of his boxers, tenting them with a big wet spot at the tip. He slid them off in one fluid, graceful movement, moving more like a body of water than a man. The entire time, his eyes were locked with Dean's, more sultry and heated than he'd ever seen before.

The performance only served to make Dean painfully hard, his own hips twitching with aborted little humps as he tried to prevent himself from creaming his jeans just from Sam's little strip tease.

When Dean finally let his eyes roam over Sam's cock, his mouth fell open. Sam had trimmed the wiry patch of hair there until it was small and organized, and from what Dean could see his balls and perineum were baby-smooth and hairless.

"Christ," Dean growled roughly, biting the inside of his cheek to control himself.

Sam grinned like a python, but the way he was pleased and fanning his feathers was more like a peacock. "Your turn," he murmured, flicking at Dean's belt.

Dean didn't have the same patience as Sam, his jeans and boxers coming off in seconds. The moment his dick hit the air, he sighed, reaching down to stroke himself once, hard, from the base to the head, only a slight relief from the crazy feeling stirring hotly in the pit of his belly.

Wordlessly, they met each other; Dean raising his hips and Sam pressing his down, their dicks sliding against each other, knuckles bumping as they tried to add friction with their hands. They were grinding against each other with increasing desperation, and Dean wanted to slow it down, but his body was betraying him with every flex and rut.

"Wait," Sam breathed out against Dean's cheek, because obviously they shared the same fucking wavelength or something, "it can't be like this... please? Slower, and I-I need more."

Dean sighed, but nodded, using all of his discipline to tear his hand away from their dicks. Sam crawled away, his cock bobbing obscenely as he moved, the head dark red and dripping precome onto the bed. Dean admired his full ass as Sam dug through his bag on the nightstand, pulling out a bottle of lube before coming back to Dean and straddling him again.

The sight of Sam on his knees with his cock red and full between his legs had sent Dean closer to the edge, and he covered the head of his own dick with his palm before using the precome to give his dick a few rough jerks. He froze when Sam handed him the lube, more concerned with what Sam wasn't giving him.

"Condoms?" he asked, frowning up at Sam, setting the bottle aside.

"No," Sam said, shaking his head, his face open as he reached a hand up to Dean's jaw, tracing the contours of his face. "I just-- with you, I want it to be everything. I need to be able to feel you, Dean. All of you."

Dean's cock twitched against his tummy, two kinds of warmth pooling inside him as he looked up at the entreating look on Sam's face, so reminiscent of the puppy dog look Sam had pulled on him in more innocent situations.

"Okay," he finally agreed, swallowing, and picked up the lube. "But we're getting tested, you hear?"

Sam nodded his head repeatedly. "Of course," he said, making Dean feel better about the whole situation. And, if he were honest with himself, the idea of being buried deep inside Sam with nothing between them was the best fucking idea he'd ever heard. He was done with the whole big brother routine, and was fully on board as he began smearing a generous amount of lube across his fingers until they were completely coated.

He paused then, pursing his lips as he regarded Sam, who was waiting silently, one hand loosely curled around the base of his cock.

"It's... not gonna feel good at first, Sam," he tried slowly, "it's gonna burn. You'll be tight. It might... bring back some bad memories, is what I'm saying."

Sam kissed him chastely before pressing his fingers to Dean's mouth and smiling fondly. "As long as I'm with you, I'll be fine," he whispered, his throat thick with emotion.

"If you want to keep talking so I can hear your voice, that would work too," he added after a beat, seeing the worry still creasing lines in Dean's forehead.

"'Course, Sammy," Dean grunted, moving his hand to Sam's slim hips to give him warning, before cupping his ass and sliding down the smooth crease to the pucker of his hole. He circled around it for a few moments, trying to relax Sam, before pressing a single finger in, only up to the first knuckle.

"It's just me, little brother. Gonna make you feel so good," Dean started, pressing his finger in and out of Sam with a steady rhythm as Sam breathed shakily over him.

Dean pressed the finger in deeper, feeling the rings of muscles clench tightly around him as he crooked his finger and pushed deeper into him. Sam made a small sound and buried his nose into the spot behind Dean's ear, breathing in the smell of him and calming down, his grip on Dean's finger loosening slightly.

"That's real good, Sammy," Dean soothed, continuing to press until his finger slid and slipped easily and he felt it was safe to add a second finger, scissoring it alongside the first, pulling them both almost all the way out before plunging back in, wiggling them the way he'd seen in some of the videos he'd watched, studying them to see what would feel best instead of using them to get off.

It was strange to Dean-- gay porn didn't do anything for him, didn't stir anything up, but Sam's body did, Sam's cock, Sam's face. He guessed that if he ever tried to watch straight porn again, he'd get the same result-- Sam was it for him now, Sam was his endgame. And he knew by the way Sam's hands were gripping his shoulders tight enough to leave bruises that Sam was the same.

"You're so brave for doing this with me," Dean breathed, squeezing the meat of Sam's ass with his other hand as Sam began to squeak and whine, pushing himself back against Dean's fingers, fucking himself onto Dean's hand.

It was fucking hot to watch, the way Sam squirmed in his lap, his thighs burning hot at Dean's sides. Sam was beginning to sweat in earnest, which for Sam meant he was getting drenched, the tips of his hair wet. A drop hit Dean's chest. Dean jolted when he felt Sam's hand tugging his fingers out of his hole, and was about to ask what was wrong when Sam kissed him and grabbed the lube at the same time.

"Need you," Sam said plainly, slicking Dean's cock up with lube, spreading it liberally over the shaft and head, making Dean toss his head side to side and bite his lip, restraining a moan at how good it felt, how fucking close he already was.

Sam gripped Dean's dick and held it in place as he spread his thighs further apart and slowly sank himself down, the mushroom head of Dean's dick pushing past the ring of muscles easily. Sam whimpered, freezing there for a second, trying to relax and let Dean further in.

"You look so good, all speared on my dick like that," Dean groaned, wincing at his attempt at dirty talk. Sam made a desperate sound low in his throat, apparently very turned on, and lowered his hips even further, incredibly slowly, inch by inch, until Dean was fully seated inside of him.

Sam was breathing harshly now, in rough, short bursts, his knees shaking near Dean's hips and his fingertips digging into Dean's shoulders, leaving little crescent shaped marks in their wake as his hands fluttered restlessly. He looked like his brain was short-circuiting at the torrent of sensations flooding through him, and Dean couldn't get a word out, marvelling at how warm and tight Sam was, the muscles squeezing and loosening around his shaft.

Sam bent down to press his cheek against Dean's, resting his head on Dean's skin. He lifted his hips fractionally before hissing, wiggling them back down. He repeated the action a couple of times until he grew bolder, allowing himself to move a little more, his cock hanging above Dean's belly.

"Guh, so fucking good, Sammy," Dean cried out when Sam kept going, bracing himself with his hands on Dean's chest. He allowed his hands to wander, tracing the outline of Sam's hips and belly button before lowering them to his cock, running his hand along the underside where he knew a sensitive vein was, letting the roughness of the callouses on his fingers brush in all the right places.

Sam moaned, long and loud, sounding every bit the pornstar. He kissed Dean, and Dean reached up to brush his hands through Sam’s hair, framing his face for a moment before sinking his fingers into Sam’s scalp and tugging on his hair, pressing their mouths closer against each other.

Sam was folded over him, his ass slamming up and down on Dean's pelvis. They'd used too much lube, so each movement was filthily wet, slick slapping sounds and desperate, breathy groans filling the silence of the room.

He pulled back fractionally, meeting Dean's eyes, his pupils blown until there was barely any color surrounding them. A charged moment passed between them as they moved and looked at each other, gaze heated but soft, aroused but loving. It was the complete understanding of each other, no spot of their selves unseen, souls fully bared to each other with no regret. Dean placed his hands on Sam's waist, rubbing up and down in a way he hoped was comforting, purveying his emotions in a stronger way than his words could. Sam understood, slowing his pace just a little, squeezing slow pleasure out of Dean.

Sam straightened up, tilting his head back as he let his hips move of their own volition, moving in tight circles as he fucked himself on Dean's dick in a measured, tantalizing pace that drove Dean absolutely crazy with the intense stimulation.

"God, god, _Deeeaaan_ ," Sam whined, his voice tight and three octaves higher than usual, "you feel so fucking good, oh god, I didn't think anything could feel this good... just you..."

Dean couldn't reply, too close to have higher brain function, holding on for the ride instead. His mouth was hanging open as he stared at Sam, trying not to blink because he didn't want to miss a second. Sam was miles of beautiful, art-covered multicolored skin, with broad shoulders that tapered down to hips so skinny that shirts hung off of him. His head was still tilted back, his eyes shut so tightly it looked painful. He was gleaming in the moonlight, the dark lines across his arms and chest made starker and bolder, doused in sweat, his cock curving up in the image of arousal. He was bouncing up and down wildly, any restraint forgotten, almost fully unseating himself before slamming back down without mercy, twisting and wriggling and pressing the head of Dean's cock to his prostate with every thrust.

"C'mon, c'mon, c'mon, Sammy," Dean urged, finally finding his voice, fucking his hips up into Sam and causing Sam to make a sound that was close to a scream, "you close, baby? You look so good. Fuck. Sam."

He removed a hand from Sam's hip to encircle his fist around Sam's length, his hand still smooth with lube as he squeezed the base of Sam's cock and tugged quickly upward in a way that drove himself crazy. Sam whimpered over and over again, with every burst of breath. He was now moving erratically, trying in vain to fuck into Dean's hand while fucking back onto Dean's dick.

"Come for me," Dean growled, pumping up into Sam with all of his energy, now sweating just as profusely as his brother. Sam obeyed without a pause, moaning low and deep in his throat as he came hard, spilling all across Dean's fist and chest.

Dean's hips stuttered as he felt that familiar tightness and came deep inside Sam, his eyes rolling up in his head as he sputtered, falling back on the bed with an exhausted sigh.

Sam moved his hips a few more times, helping Dean finish, before leaning forward and kissing Dean lightly, his fingers lightly rubbing over the bruises he'd left on Dean's shoulders like an apology. Dean kissed him back, patting Sam on the shoulder and grinning like a loon, his teeth clicking against Sam's as Sam smiled back at him.

Sam winced and raised himself off of Dean until Dean was out of him. He rolled over to lay on his back beside Dean, completely boneless and lax, a small trail of come leaking out of his hole.

Dean was completely sated, and he'd probably sell a kidney not to move from his spot, but he got up anyway and retrieved a washcloth. He wiped it over Sam's chest,  and then slid it down between his legs, cleaning out his spunk that was dribbling out of Sam, his hole fluttering, stretched open but with nothing to fill it.

If he hadn't just come harder than he ever had in his life, he knew his dick would've perked up at the sight, but he was too far gone. His eyelids barely stayed open further than half mast. He cleaned himself up half assedly before letting the washcloth drop to the ground. He snuggled back into his spot, still warm, forcing a long yawn out of him.

Sam shuffled closer until his head was pillowed on Dean's shoulder, his arm wrapping around Dean's waist. He raised a leg to slot between Dean's, making as much of their naked bodies touch as he could. His fingers absentmindedly played across Dean's side, and Dean looked down at him, seeing his face soft and relaxed, his eyes deep in thought.

He wrapped an arm around Sam, squeezing once. "How do you feel?" he asked, flushing at the words.

"A little sore," Sam confessed, but a pleased smile split across his face. "Good, though, Dean. I feel really good."

Dean squeezed him again. "Good," he replied, letting his eyes close again. He felt Sam's breath on his skin as Sam went limp against him, blanketing him with hot skin.

It was only a few seconds before Dean was drifting away, too, feeling safer than he ever had since the fire took their mom.

**  
**

THE WORDS, PART TEN (EIGHT HOURS LATER)

Sam woke up in bits and pieces, warm and comfortable and safe. The sunlight had woken him up, streaming through the windows. He made a small noise and snuggled closer to Dean's warmth, pressing his face into Dean's neck to block out the light. He was so warm. The hand Dean had slung across his hip was a space of extra heat, and he loved it, loved the way he was Dean's. Dean's smell was all around him, the same one he'd wrapped around him like a safety blanket for as long as he could remember. The vague smell of sex lingered, too, but it didn't gross Sam out, only gave him a small thrill, spurring his heart to beat that much faster.

He ached, but in a good way. It felt more like lingering fullness, a reminder Dean had been with him and had him and trusted him. Dean had loved him. That was why it had felt so right, why Sam didn't ever shake or pull away. Because Dean was so different. He was real, and he loved Sam right back and it wasn't some crazy dream. Even if he did hurt a little, it barely phased him. He'd had much worse.

He moved his hips forward, stretching a leg out further to ease the light throb between his thighs. His dick was soft, pressed against Dean's side, and Dean was naked too, spread out for miles under the thin white sheets. Sam turned his head so his cheek was resting on Dean's shoulder and let his eyes roam languidly over Dean's body, memorizing and appraising. He reached a hand over to Dean's chest, sliding it slowly down and feeling Dean's steady breaths as he moved. He reached the thatch of wiry hair around Dean's cock and petted it, fascinated. He didn't touch Dean where he wanted to, wanted to let him sleep this deeply for awhile longer.

Dean mumbled quietly, the arm around Sam's waist tightening slightly and pulling him closer. Sam grinned softly and let himself be pressed up against his brother, sighing in pleasure. He wanted this small moment to last ages, wanted the sunlight to stay a deep, early, orange, the sky still lilac and blue. Dean's head turned toward him, his stubble scratching roughly against Sam's face.

Dean opened his eyes, the green bright and piercing with the aid of the sun. His eyes wandered lazily until they met Sam's, his eyes almost crossing with how close they were. He quirked a lopsided smile. "Morning."

Sam kissed him in response, closed-mouthed, but Dean groaned anyway, pulling his head back. "Morning breath," he grumbled, his mouth turning into a big 'O' as he yawned. "Mouth smells like shit."

Sam snickered. "Then go brush your teeth, Sleeping Beauty."

Dean shoved him away, but it was light and teasing. He sat up, raising his arms and stretching his back, his spine popping with his lethargic movements. "Nag, nag, nag. I never should've married you."

Dean was up and away moments later, his back turned to Sam, blind to the blush of happiness warming up Sam's cheeks. Sam propped himself up on his elbow and watched as Dean stumbled into the bathroom in a zombielike gait. He admired the curve of Dean's ass and the few freckles that dotted his cheeks and the small of his back. Dean left the door open as he got ready, and Sam was next to him moments later in some boxers and a ratty tee. He handed a pile of clothes over to Dean, who took them gratefully, jumping one-legged into the boxers and tugging the shirt over his torso.

He dropped the razor he'd grabbed back onto the counter, turning to Sam and pulling up his shirt.

"What are you...?!" Sam fumbled, watching as a satisfied smirk took over Dean's features. Sam frowned, feeling self conscious under the gaze. "What?"

"Bruises," Dean said lowly, by way of explanation. "On both of your hips, wanted to see if they'd still be there."

"Oh." Sam breathed, aware he was probably entirely pink.

Dean's eyes were dark as he winked at Sam. "S'a good look on you, little brother," he said, turning and leaving Sam standing in the middle of the bathroom. “the tats are, too.”

He left Sam staring after him, frozen and trying to control the arousal and amusement tumbling around in his belly.

Finding his bearings, he jogged after Dean, brushing up against him as he crowded over the stove, commenting on the breakfast Dean was making them. Dean patted his ass, tossing out some comment about putting out before turning back to the bacon sizzling before him.

Sam made his way over to the kitchen table, flopping down his seat and quietly watching Dean hum and flit about the kitchen. It was an unusual sight, but not unwelcome. The simplest way Sam could think to describe it was that Dean was finally happy, and not hiding anything. It seemed cliche to say, but it was as if the night they shared had made him feel freer, more open and honest with Sam. Like a cockroach scuttling about inside his chest had turned out to be a sparrow with a beautiful call, spreading its wings after too long in a too small cage.

Sam fucking loved it. This Dean was openly affectionate, snarky, and comfortable. His eyes never said disappointment, his looks never steely and guarded. Sam was having a bit of trouble letting himself be so cut open in the same way, but he could see it would be a good thing. Letting Dean in would save him for sure.

Dean came over with a plate stacked high with bacon, eggs, and hash browns. "Eat up," he said, giving Sam a pointed look that meant eat everything so I know you're okay.

Sam nodded, smiling distractedly as Dean pushed a glass of orange juice over to him.

"What?" Dean said after a moment, watching Sam watching him.

"It's just... you're just..." Sam flopped his hand about in between them vaguely, searching for the words he needed. "Happier. More like yourself than I think you've been in years. I like it."

For a single beat, he was afraid Dean would react harshly, steering the conversation away from his emotions with an insult or a joke, changing the subject in an easy manner that would leave Sam's head spinning.

Those fears disappeared immediately when Dean sat across from him, hooking his ankle with Sam's. "Yeah, well," he grunted, stabbing at his eggs, "didn't really see any reason to keep bein' so scared." His tone was blunt, deflective; still trying to make light of things but the effort warmed Sam's heart.

"Hey," Sam said, grabbing Dean's attention. He tugged Dean's leg toward his own. "I'm glad."

Dean smiled then, and Sam relaxed back into his chair, pointedly cramming a piece of bacon in his mouth. Dean looked on in blatant approval, giving Sam a secret little proud look before returning to his own breakfast and dousing them in a comfortable, relaxed silence.

The rest of the day passed by in a cozy blur. Bobby called sometime around lunch, and Sam answered first. Bobby sounded surprised to hear from him, and progressively more surprised the longer Sam spoke to him. Sam supposed it should hurt that Bobby was impressed with his cognizance and lucidity, but it didn't bother him. Bobby warmed up to him the longer they spoke, and when he finally handed the phone off to Dean, a stupid grin was plastered stubbornly to his cheeks.

Dean kissed Sam when Bobby told him to wait a moment, the line still on, the phone dangling from Dean's hand. Sam had been caught off guard, making high pitched noises as Dean tugged him forward by the shirt collar, but quickly got with the program. He was probing around Dean's mouth with his tongue when Bobby's voice came back over the line, tinny and shrill and causing Sam to stumble backward, lips wet with spittle and cheeks red with heat.

Dean had answered without missing a beat, his eyes never leaving Sam’s, and it was Sam who initiated the frenzied kissing when Bobby finally bid them goodbye.

They didn't get much done for the rest of the afternoon.

A man came up the drive around eight, the summer air still warm and cool as the sun dropped lower and darkened in color, turning the shadows of cars in the lot into massive black behemoths. He asked for Bobby, wondering about getting a part for his car, and Dean said he was his son. They proceeded to talk while on the porch, shooting the shit and talking business. By the time the guy left, Dean knew his name and had a job lined up, something that had to do with the transmission, if Sam followed the conversation correctly.

He'd stayed inside the house the entire time, listening through the window screen, leaning against the wall and trying his best to ignore the shame that was sparking the beginnings of a headache in his forehead. He had no idea why the man made him so nervous, made him want to hide behind Dean's legs like a five-year-old. It was a niggling reminder that he still wasn't quite the same Sam, that there was something different within him. Dean hadn't mentioned it when he came back in, and Sam was beyond grateful. They fell into bed together, exhausted after doing nothing, and got no further than quick little pecks on the lips before sleep was pulling them away.

Sam woke before the sun to a voice calling to him. He couldn't see, surrounded by darkness, but could feel someone pulling at him, someone he'd spent lifetimes with. Confused with sleep and a loose mind, he got out of the bed, curling his arms around his torso and frowning at the glint of a pair of eyes staring back at him, stripping him down.

"It's me," the shape whispered, "it's Dean. We haven't spoken in awhile, Sam. We still can fix things."

"No... that's not..." Sam trailed off, frowning. He turned to look back at the body curled on its side in the bed. "That's Dean, back there. You're not- you're not real. Just in my h-head."

"C'mon, Sammy," the figure pouted, stepping forward into a weak pool of moonlight. Sam could barely make out his face, could only see the shiny welts covering his face. Wide, red burns spread across his skin, like a fire was melting him from the inside out. Most of them were infected, covered in pus. Sam wrinkled his nose even though he smelled nothing. "It's me. I'm the real one, not him. How many memories do you have with me? Millions?" he scoffed. "And with him? A few paltry years worth? From ages ago? He isn't real, Sam. He's just a pipe dream, and you know it, because you would never leave me."

"Shut up," Sam growled, balling his hands into fists. "I know what you were trying to do, with the bodies. I won't help you."

"But you will," the man- the devil, Sam reminded himself- hissed. He grabbed Sam's arm, cool claws wrapping around his forearm and digging in painfully. Sam could feel his resolve weakening, as it always did, the same old weakness and submission and fear returning. He could vaguely remember Dean saying he'd lasted thirty years in hell. Sam couldn't remember how long he'd lasted with Lucifer, but with a depressing confidence he knew it hadn't taken long for him to break.

"You didn't break, you let me in," Lucifer whispered, smooth as silk, reading Sam's thoughts. "My vessel, my lover. I know how much you love to fight but we know how this game's weighted, and let's face it. You want me back. You miss me, you miss the pain, the torture. You still think you deserve it. You still crave it."

"Don't say another single fucking word," Sam sputtered, his voice cracking and wavering as his throat clogged with denial. "No more. You're not real. Just... go away."

"I'm more real than anything else you've ever seen," Lucifer grinned, wide like the Chesire cat. "you still need me to keep you in one piece. Come with me, Sam. Maybe I'm not Dean. I'm just something bigger, more addictive." He tugged lightly on Sam's arm, and Sam found himself walking forward, following him to the door. Lucifer shifted until he had a hand pressed to the small of Sam's back, and it was intoxicating and poisonous at the same time. The tattoos across Sam's skin seemed to burn and ache nervously, as if they could feel how pathetic Sam was, how easily he'd bend over like this.

Lucifer guided him to Dean's jacket, hanging in the closet. His Glock was tucked into an inner pocket, and Sam pulled it out, pulling out the cartridge and checking it for ammunition before sliding it back in. His hands were shaking and slicked with sweat, so he gripped the gun tighter, wishing he wouldn't ever have to touch a gun again.

He made it far as the door before a different voice tugged him away from the promises the devil was pouring into his head like quicksilver.

"What are you doin', Sammy?" Dean asked, his voice soft but clear, not at all cobwebbed by sleep. He'd probably heard everything Sam had said, watched every guilty move with a damning stare.

Sam turned to face his verdict even as Lucifer yanked at his shirt, demanding him to leave.

Dean sat up and slid across the bed, getting heavily to his feet but keeping his distance, regarding Sam with a cool eye, apprehension lying just beneath the surface. The evidence that Dean didn't trust him right now twisted Sam's heart up in knots, made it harder for him to breathe.

"I was just..." he swallowed, wetting his mouth, "I was only sleepwalking. I wasn't going anywhere."

"Okay," Dean said, and there was no doubt in Sam's mind that his brother didn't believe a word he was saying. "Then come back to bed."

Lucifer pushed Sam's finger onto the trigger. "You can't listen to him," he murmured, as calm and collected as ever, "you won't ever have to listen to him again if you go through with this. It will just be you and me, ruling the world. You know you want that, Sam. It's time to stop fighting and let yourself have what you deserve."

Lucifer nosed at his neck, sinking his teeth into his pulse point and leaving a mark over Dean's. "Sam," he said again, and his voice was just so soothing, smooth as silk, and Sam wanted to listen. He wanted to with a desperate pounding between his eyes and an ache in his throat.

His hand twitched up only slightly, but enough for Dean to see that it was meant to be aimed at him.

"Sammy," Dean said, his voice breaking across the syllables. "Put the gun down and come back to bed."

"Why don't you hate me?" Sam choked, beginning to tremble, Lucifer's cold hand rubbing up and down his side, "why don't you just kill me? That would be easier. I'm going to hurt so many people and you know it. Even when I try to be strong I'm always weaker than you."

"Bullshit." Dean barked, stepping closer. "Don't listen to him, don't fucking fool yourself. Haven't you been through enough of that? You're the smartest fucking boy in the world, Sam. Now come back to bed."

"No," Sam's lip curled up in a pained mockery of a smile, a tear running down the side of his nose and sliding off his chin, "no, I'm disgusting. Used. Please, Dean... I want you to do it, okay? It's for the best."

Dean whimpered, tugging at his hair. "How many fucking times are you going to ask me to do that? How many times will it take for you to realize that I'd never fucking do that? You're not seeing straight, Sam. Give me the gun. There's no one else in the room. Come to bed."

Lucifer laughed in Sam's ear, his breath acrid and rotting. He curled an arm around Sam's waist and Sam sagged, his headache blooming into a full-blown migraine.

"Lucifer... when he was you, he would kiss me to keep me in line," Sam whispered. "I would always just follow him after he did. It was his touch that blinded me."

Dean searched Sam's eyes, understanding clicking in his own as he closed the gap between them. He took Sam's hands in each of his and squeezed. "Did it feel like this? I bet it didn't. This is what it really feels like, Sammy. You remember when we were together? That's real, only that. That's when someone cares about you so much they'd split the fucking world in half, and he could never give you that."

Dean kissed him lightly, but insistently, pulling Sam's hands up to rest on Dean's chest. He broke the kiss, rubbing his face against Sam's.

"This is real. I am your flesh and blood and the one and only. He's gone, Sam. There's no one else here," he whispered into Sam's ear, before bending down to kiss and nip softly at the intersection of Sam's neck and shoulder. His hand slipped under Sam’s shirt and found the personal sigil there, pressing his hand firmly into it until Lucifer flickered out of sight, gone from the corner of Sam’s vision.

Sam sighed, tugging his arms down to wrap around Dean's back, hugging him closely. He started crying, and let it happen, not feeling distant or disconnected or trapped by a demon of his past. He pressed his nose into Dean's hair, closing his eyes and just letting it all out, including the hidden anxiety he'd locked away when he desperately wanted to pretend everything was perfectly fine. Dean was whispering soothing nothings in his ear, walking them backward until he was pulling Sam out of his embrace and tucking him back into bed, prying Sam's fingers from the gun and disarming it before putting it in the nightstand. He got in after Sam, wrapping his arms around him and spooning him, kissing the back of his neck and kneading the knots out of Sam's shoulders.

"It's not as bad as you think," Dean finally murmured, as Sam was drifting back to sleep, "you'll always come back to me. You'll always be mine. You're okay. I promise."

"I know," Sam managed, feeling the brush of Dean's lips against his skin as he begged for sleep to come and turn all of this into a bitter memory.

By the time it came, his hallucinations were long gone and with Dean wrapped around him, he knew they couldn’t hurt him anymore.

**  
**

THE WORDS, PART ELEVEN (EIGHT HOURS LATER) .

Dean had been awake for hours, flat on his back and staring up at the ceiling as it lightened with the rising sun. He’d secured both of his arms firmly wrapped around Sam, keeping a vigil. If Sam woke up, the first thing he’d be surrounded by was Dean. If Dean’s touch didn’t work to keep him anchored to reality, then he would use his strength and pin Sam to the bed until he listened.

_It’ so no one will get hurt_ , Dean kept repeating in his head, feeling a physical stab of guilt in his chest every time he tightened his arms and widened his eyes if Sam as much as twitched in his sleep.

Sam had been fine-- Dean never had to take any action except for shifting when Sam rolled further on top of him, adding an unneeded blanket of furnace-like heat. Even with all the doubt and suspicion he was affording Sam, Dean wasn’t surprised that his brother stayed safe and close by all night long, sleeping more soundly than he had recently. Usually Dean’s nights were shaken awake by Sam, shuddering in the throes of some nightmare. It was always easy to lull him back into a blank sleep-- all it took was a light kiss, a hand around the waist. Dean had done more than that for Sam when his mind was leading him away. He’d been a real connection, a real anchor to reality for Sam, holding tightly onto him and speaking to him, getting through to him.

Sam was stronger than he gave himself credit for. And if a large portion of that strength came from Dean, so be it. They had been drawing strength off of each other their whole lives. It was practically their only reserve-- self-loathing tended to run in the family.

Dean didn’t think Sam would ever fully forgive himself for some of the things that had happened to him, that he would continue living quietly, trying to fade away as he exercised a maudlin type of self-punishment.

But he would try his damndest to pull Sam out of the holes he fell into and make him feel safe. At this point, he counted even a single timid smile of Sam’s as a roaring victory. He knew Sam thought he would be crawling up the walls because of a lack of jobs. Sure, they were effectively retired from hunting, but making Sam happy after all that had happened to him was now a duty of Dean’s. He wouldn’t let Sam down this time, and he counted on Sam not to let him down, either.

As Sam finally stirred into wakefulness, lasting the entire night without another incident, Dean was positive Sam wouldn’t.

Sam’s hair brushed at Dean’s nose as he moved and looked up at Dean, blinking slowly as his brain slowly powered on. Dean combed Sam’s hair behind his ear, smoothing it down as he went. “Have a good sleep, kiddo?” he rumbled, his voice gravelly from a lack of sleep.

Sam took in Dean’s purple, baggy eyes and the set of his lips and frowned, looking away guiltily and not speaking a word.

Dean sighed, letting his hand absentmindedly run from the lines of Sam’s jaw all the way down his back, rubbing at his skin through the cotton of his shirt. “Not your fault,” he reminded, injecting as much steel and sternness into his voice as he could in his sleep deprived state.

Sam lifted his lips in response, but it was a pathetic excuse for a smile. Still, Dean would take it over nothing. Dean lifted Sam’s chin with his other hand, pressing a light kiss to his mouth, stifling Sam’s protests of being sweaty and smelly. When he pulled them apart and looked at his brother, Sam’s smile had softened but had become far more genuine, a familiar sight from all throughout Dean’s life. Dean smiled back, mirroring Sam’s expression.

Sam let the moment linger for a few beats before shoving the blankets back and rolling out of bed, grabbing things as he got to his feet and heading into the the bathroom. Dean joined him soon after, hip-checking him or asking a mindless question if Sam’s eyes ever dulled and got far away. Without fail, it drew Sam back, and Sam caught on to what Dean was doing. Dean was afraid Sam would be indignant, but Sam was openly grateful, and the weakness in his eyes made Dean’s protective instincts and affection burst into overdrive.

He settled with making out with Sam against the kitchen counter to soothe his sappy soul, and the sun rose steadily alongside Dean’s mood.

It felt a little as if the moment Sam lost any control, Dean’s hopes were dashed, and the moment he came back to himself, Dean was optimistic again, like a constant battle of ups and downs. He tried to remind himself every step backward wasn’t the end of the world. Sam was better than when he was lost in desert, or when he was screaming with his eyes rolled back into his head and thrashing backward in a daze of complete panic.

He felt decently chagrined when he pointed out to himself that they’d only been here a few months. Recovery in that period of time was downright unrealistic. Holistically, Sam was making leaps and bounds of progress, considering. They’d just have to fight their way back to some sense of order, tooth and nail.

“If you have to constantly convince yourself that everything’s fine, maybe it isn’t,” Sam commented from behind him, letting the front door clack shut as he moved down to the steps and handed Dean a beer.

Dean accepted the drink, tugging the cap off using the edge of the steps. He looked up at Sam, his own eyes under the shade of the veranda but Sam’s were bright and dilated into the late afternoon sun. Sam squinted back at him tiredly, and Dean mulled over how they seemed to have traded places over the years. Sam used to be the hopeful one, aggressively optimistic even when they faced the worst of odds while Dean was the negative one, sometimes lashing out at Sam, yelling, and even hitting him on rare occasions. Sam kept Dean up, whether he realized it or not, carrying Dean on his back when all Dean wanted to do was shoot things and lay down.

Now Dean was the one carrying Sam. He had before, both literally and figuratively, and shot Sam a confident smile, casually looking at the soda Sam had in his hands as he talked.

“M’not,” Dean said loosely, watching as Sam sat down beside him and looked across the junkyard. “Just, you know, thinking. About us.”

“What about us?” Sam asked, grabbing the pull tab on his drink and opening it with a loud pop and a hiss.

“That we can do this, for starters,” Dean said, giving Sam a pointed look. “That it’s definitely not fuckin’ simple and it’s not fuckin’ over but it’s possible. Not because I’m some happy-go-lucky optimist or that we’re not fucking things further by hunting or anything. Just because it’s us, Sammy. I know how that sounds, all romance novelly n’ shit, but it’s the truth. Always has been.”

Sam took a sip of his drink and turned to face Dean, giving him a look that was contemplative and analytical, his eyes creasing around the edges and his brows pulling down and inward.

After several beats passed and Sam hadn’t spoken, hadn’t blinked or looked away, Dean was feeling a little defensive, trying not to prickle up at how Sam’s eyes went straight through any facades he had pulled up and moved to his center. He was good at spitting out one liners, at turning the radio higher and acting carefree, but that’s not what he needed to do now. He needed to let Sam see the truth, see that he really did fucking believe in him. He did love him.

“We can try,” Sam agreed finally, setting the can down beside him, and Dean read behind the words and felt a rush of every gooey emotion ever at the metaphorical hand Sam was holding out.

Dean took a pull of his beer before setting his drink aside and nodding. “That we can,” he murmured, feeling warm and satisfied.

\--

“Hey Dean?” Sam broke into his thoughts after several minutes of a comfortable silence, watching the sun turn a darker blue, mixed with pinks and purples and oranges in long brushes of color.

“Yeah?”

“I feel like we’ve been…” Sam flexed his fingers, frowning out at the dirt, “I guess just kind of sitting at Bobby’s for awhile, you know? I feel like we should be doing something. And I’m not suggesting we go hunting, not yet,” he added quickly when Dean huffed and sat up straighter, “I just think I have to be productive or I’m going to go crazy. Could we at least… go to the shooting range?”

“No,” Dean barked immediately, his jaw ticking as he fought to keep it shut.

Sam winced. “Some cans out back? Like the old days, right Dean?”

“No.”

“I know I’m not one-hundred percent-”

“It’s not about that. I trust you, okay? I just… I don’t want to jump into it, get it? Yeah, of course I’m worried about you, but this is just about me. I don’t think I can go back to that yet. I don’t think we should. C’mon, Sam.” Dean didn’t like to beg, but he was worried that Sam would stick to this idea, pressing on and on until Dean would have to give in and they would just kill again. Mindlessly, like a simple routine. Not even worrying about how freely they might be sacrificing their lives away, again and again and again as they sunk deeper back into the rabbit hole and inevitably lost another piece of themselves.

Sam didn’t fight it, giving Dean a gentle took that meant he knew too damn much. “Let’s just be productive, then,” he said, his voice light and kind, “want to go to the store? Bobby’s running low on everything and I don’t wanna climb up the walls.”

“Okay, yeah.” Dean said, standing up and stretching. “We can do that.”

Sam beamed back, his teeth peeking out from between his lips. “Thank you.”

Dean clapped him on the back but let his hand linger, casually falling to the small of Sam’s back as they moved toward the car. “Anytime, Sam. Anytime.”

\--

Dean found them a FoodMart and they walked in side-by-side, feeling ridiculously domestic, as if their late-night history was written all over their faces and they had become the token gay couple of the town. Dean looked at Sam and hissed under his breath, moving over and tugging the collar of Sam’s jacket a little higher to hide the hickey that had been peeking out. Sam blushed a deep red, and fumbled for the list he’d written in his pocket, drawing it out and haltingly changing the subject, staring holes in it to avoid anyone else’s gaze.

Sam began as the unofficial ringleader of their little, awkward circus, but it was soon apparent that the cavernous store was starting to get to him. His face looked like a lost child, with big wide eyes and a worried frown. He bumped into people in the aisles and would stutter an apology become scrambling away, his fingers twitching and fidgeting by his sides. More than once, Dean had to tug him away from a display rack he was about to back into and topple over.

They were weaving through a mass of people in the cereal aisle when Dean noticed that Sam had reason for the sweat starting to shine on his neck. He’d taken his jacket off earlier, tossing it in the cart Dean was puttering around and sighing in relief. People would look up and down at his sleeves of tattoos and then take in his height before narrowing their eyes and scampering away. Pretty much every old woman in the store gave Sam a dirty look, as if they’d call the cops on him for buying an extra box of flour. Sam was curling in on himself, hunching down, the attention probably making him overthink everything he did and make him believe he was a bad person, one-dimensional.

Dean tugged on Sam’s sleeve and leaned toward him. “You wanna go home?” he asked lowly, glaring right back at a mother who shepherded her children away from Sam.

Sam turned to him with a set jaw and a glint in his eyes. “No,” he said, breathing out slowly and running a hand through his hair, “I can do this. I mean, it’s not fun but it’s not supposed to be, right? I can do this. We only have a few more things to get, anyway. C’mon.”

He started moving briskly down the aisle before Dean could protest, so Dean followed a few steps behind, reasonably proud that Sam was trying to be brave and completely bitter that people judged Sam for his tattoos and his height, never able to see the most beautiful person staring right back at them with the shame they themselves should be feeling..

He jogged up to meet Sam, and put the hand that wasn’t on the cart in Sam’s.

Sam relaxed considerably, and Dean added things to the cart as a joke, like diapers or constipation medicine. Sam always caught on right away, playing along and dramatically rolling his eyes as he turned them around and put things back in the right spot.

Dean sang poorly along to the songs he didn’t know that were playing quietly on the loudspeakers, Sam glaring at him with mock offense, his eyes betraying him with their warmth and brightness.

Dean was mulling over which type of shampoo to get when he turned to face Sam and get his opinion, only to the find the cart sitting at his side but no sasquatch brother.

Dean set his feet firmly on the tiles and told himself to relax. He was already on the precipice of an overprotective mother-style breakdown, grounding himself with the knowledge that that wouldn’t help. He waited for a couple of minutes, just in case Sam had gone somewhere to fetch something they’d forgotten. Sam’s list, written in his doctor-level messy scrawl, sat in the front of the cart and Dean glared at it, offended it didn’t cough up Sam’s location right the fuck now.

Dean pushed the cart and started looking up and down the aisles as he passed, sometimes craning his head over them to see if Sam’s moppy hair peeked out from behind display shelves.

He was getting to the front of the store when he spotted Sam, jogging toward him at the same time and older woman came forward, too.

Sam was crouching by a cashier’s desk with a little boy. The little boy had crushed himself against Sam’s side, holding a ratty dog plush in the crook of his elbow with a vice like grip. The little boy perked up when he saw the woman, and the cashier put down her loudspeaker device as the boy sprang out of Sam’s arms and ran to her.

Sam stood up slowly, giving Dean a short, apologetic look before turning back to the kid and his mother and smiling faintly.

“I found your son back near the movies, wandering around and looking upset,” Sam was saying as Dean drew closer, “so I brought him up here so he could find his mom. Dylan is a really sweet kid.”

“You have no right to touch him,” she immediately spat, hefting Dylan up into her arms and hugging him close to her. “I don’t need convicts to take my son from me.”

Sam barely reacted, freezing in place, his smile dimming down what little wattage it had. Dean turned to her, simmering beneath the surface but forcing himself to stay calm and not beat the shit out of this woman in front of her son. “He helped you out,” he told her evenly, meeting her affronted look head-on, “he found your son for you. The least you could say is thank you.”

He heard Sam sigh beside him. “Dean, it’s fine, really.”

“No it isn’t,” Dean replied, still glaring daggers at the mother. “We’re done here anyway, right Sam?”

Sam shot him a weak smile, beams of gratefulness shining through as Dean took his arm and marched them past the woman and her wide-eyed child. They were almost out of the store when a voice yelled after them, and Dean turned to see the child full-out sprinting toward them, his mom calling after him to no avail.

The boy stopped in front of Sam, and Dean watched as Sam crouched down, his smile growing as he talked to the boy. Dylan was twisting the arms of his dog plush in his hands, speaking at a mile a minute to Sam about dogs.

He thrust his toy toward Sam turning his face away with a trembling lip. “You deserve Mocha. You need a doggie, ‘cause you’re lonely. You take him.”

Sam laughed, but not in an unkind way, gently pushing the dog back into Dylan’s arms. “He’d miss you,” he said, “and besides, I’m good. I’d love a dog but I’ve got my brother here, and that’s enough. You were pretty brave when you were missing your mom too, you know. Keep him for me, okay?”

Dylan nodded seriously before launching back into a sped-up ramble, talking about how Sam was a hero and his mom didn’t understand and finally thanking him before bursting forward and giving him a brief, tight hug before running back to his mom, who was still standing at a distance, completely red in the face.

Sam watched them for a moment, noticing how the mother’s face became gradually less severe and more healthy of a color. She gave Sam a meek wave before hurrying in the opposite direction, rushing herself and Dylan out of sight. Dean couldn’t stop looking at Sam, just staring in complete admiration at the selfless heart he had beating inside him. The fact that the innocent kid had seen Sam as a good man and his mother hadn’t seen anything said something to Dean, less about Sam and more about everyone else.

Even if he’d been trying his damndest not to admit it his entire life, he was so hopelessly and thoroughly in love with Sam. It seemed impossible not to, and he knew- because he knew Sam like the back of his own hand- that Sam felt the same.

“Well,” Dean finally said, clearing up the lump of emotion in his throat, “that kid is a smart cookie.”

Sam smiled silently at him before turning the cart into one of the checkout lines, and Dean trailed after him, lost deep in thought about him and Sam, how they were a unit, not individuals. An ampersand forever connecting their names together, always referred to together, not in isolation.

It wasn’t a bad thing. Their souls were two vines crawling up the same tree, overlapping and entangling so many times it was impossible to see where one ended and the other began. He’d been inside Sam-- he’d been next to him, behind him, in front of him, touching him more times than they were apart. If he could see him now, his younger self might feel overwhelmed at what they’d become, maybe become hopeful and genuine, Dean couldn’t tell. Sam paid for their piles of things, smiling shyly at the cashier before telling her to have a good day. Dean came forward and helped him with the bags, and together they left the store, no words needing to be spoken. Dean listened to the crumples of their bags as they moved, smelling Sam’s aftershave as they drifted closer together.

The entire ride back home was silent, but it was not empty-- the car felt more like it was close to bursting promise, that not all dangerous footings last forever. Sam bumped his hand across the leather seats until his fingers brushed against Dean’s, and then his little finger was crawling over Dean’s and Dean took charge, shuffling his hand under Sam’s warm palm and closing his fingers tightly around Sam’s.

It wasn’t an omen, it wasn’t monumental. It was fine, and that was just how Dean liked it.

**  
**

THE WORDS, PART TWELVE (THIRTY MINUTES LATER) .

When Sam turned from closing the door behind himself, Dean was right there, close enough to rub noses with. Before Sam could speak Dean was moving forward, and Sam opened his mouth eagerly, letting Dean nibble and suck on his bottom lip.

Dean stepped forward, backing Sam up until they hit the door with a muted thump, pushing the air out of Sam. Dean smirked before pushing his hands under Sam’s shirt, running them all over the planes of Sam’s slim body as he connected their mouths again. There were taut areas of raised skin all over Sam’s torso from the sigils he’d carved in, and Dean traced them from memory, each touch purposefully gentle and slow. Sam sagged against him, letting out a little moan from the back of his throat that Dean swallowed up, pushing his tongue into Sam’s mouth and sliding it against Sam’s.

Sam responded immediately, his hands jerking away from his sides to wrap around Dean’s neck, forcing him closer. They broke apart for air, panting roughly into each others mouths, reluctant to put even an inch of space between themselves.

After a strangely tense moment of just meeting eyes, Sam giggled nervously, trying to stop the flip-flopping in his stomach as he pressed his palms into base of Dean’s neck, forcing him closer again.

They remained there making out until both of their lips were swollen, red, and shiny. Sam was already glistening with sweat, his pupils blown wide and his mouth unable to fully shut. The bags in the car completely forgotten, Dean hooked his fingers around Sam’s wrist and tugged him through the halls and up the stairs.

Sam’s heart was beating crazily, like a pinball racketing back and forth between two pins. It wasn’t fear, though, instead it was something lighter, and he raced up the stairs right on Dean’s heels, feeling his cock start to thicken already just from imagining what was about to happen.

The door was still slamming shut behind him when he started yanking off his clothes, tossing his plaid button down into the corner of the room before placing his hands on the hem of his undershirt, ready to yank it off. Dean moved closer, stopping Sam’s hands with his own.

“Slow down there, cowboy,” he laughed, smoothing down the wrinkles in Sam’s shirt, “mind if we take it slow?”

Sam’s heart sped up its pace alongside the rush of affection warming his cheeks. He nodded, moving forward to nip at Dean’s lips for a brief second before moving to his jaw, sucking little bruises into the crook where Dean’s ear met it. Dean groaned, shifting lightly on his feet before tilting his head up, allowing Sam to explore further.

Instead, Sam pulled back. putting a single hand on the green material of Dean’s henley. “May I?” he asked, using the cheesiest tone he knew, and Dean laughed, nodding so quickly that Sam was sure his head was going to fall off.

Sam filled his hands with the bunched up hem of the shirt and lifted, Dean stepping in to help when he lifted the shirt past his pecs. Sam ran his hand up and down Dean’s chest, admiring the smoothness of his belly, how it was starting to soften more and lose definition, which Sam found hot as hell and endearing, too.

Dean coughed lightly, a silent plea, and Sam moved on, brushing his hands over the light hair dusting above Dean’s waistband. His dick was bulging out in a way that Sam knew was uncomfortable. Always willing to help, Sam slowly unbuttoned his jeans, sliding down the zipper in slow motion before roughly jerking the pants away from Dean’s hips. When they fell to the ground, Dean stepped out of them, only in a pair of boxers that was getting wetter by the second.

Sam used the same care removing those too, letting them slowly bump over the curve of Dean’s ass before they fell away.

Sam dropped to his knees, hearing Dean suck in a quick breath above him. Dean’s dick was red and hard, bobbing slightly. Sam ignored it in favor of Dean’s thigh, nosing the crease where his cock met his legs. He plastered wet kisses all around Dean’s length, but never on it, listening to Dean’s bitten-off, desperate noises.

“C’mon, Sammy,” Dean finally got out, his voice strained and broken with need, and Sam couldn’t get himself to torture his brother any further.

He let the head of Dean’s dick fall into his mouth, tasting the bitter tang of precome as he closed his lips around it, sucking lightly. The sound Dean made was high and long, and his hips snapped once against Sam’s face before he controlled himself, reaching his hands down to curl them in Sam’s hair and tug.

Sam pulled away, startled at the blood rushing down between his legs. All Dean had done was touch his hair, and yet his body was reacting like Dean had been playing around south of the border.

“You good?” Dean asked, voice breathy and uncertain, his hands starting to loosen their grip on Sam’s hair.

“No-- yeah,” Sam blustered about, “just… keep playing with my hair. I like it.”

There was a pause, and Sam refused to look up at Dean past his dick, so he stayed frozen, the smell of Dean heady and arousing all around him. Finally, Dean chuckled, yanking on Sam’s hair, not enough to hurt but enough for Sam to get the message. He licked into the slit of Dean’s cock, his head going light at what he was doing, hard to the point of hurting just at the fact he was blowing his brother. He moved away from the head, licking a broad stripe on the underside of Dean’s length, from the base to the crown. He nuzzled Dean’s dick briefly before swallowing down the head, tentatively sinking lower until the head bumped against the back of Sam’s throat.

He pulled back slightly coughing, and Dean’s hands in his hair went from urgent to comforting, petting him and combing slowly. Sam put his fist around the base of Dean’s dick and tugged in fluid, little moments as he hollowed out his cheeks and started blowing Dean in earnest, wiping his tongue across veins and sensitive spots as he went. Dean tasted good to him, the sharp taste welcome in his mouth. The heavy weight of Dean’s thick cock in his mouth was something addicting, something he knew he’d never be able to stop craving after this. He closed his lips tighter around Dean, bobbing further and further down each time, moaning long and desperately at the feeling of it, the arousal making him throb.

Dean cried out, his grip on Sam’s hair tightening, and he gently pushed Sam away and off of him, panting heavily all the while.

Sam swallowed before speaking, his mouth feeling completely saturated with spit. “What is it?” he asked, looking up at his brother.

“Fuck, you don’t even…” Dean trailed off, his entire face and neck pink. “I was so close, Sammy. If you kept doing that it was gonna end right there.”

Sam’s heart restarted the annoying hummingbird beats, and he smiled up at Dean, his eyes almost black. “Do you want me on the bed, or…?”

Dean grinned back, the softness of his expression making it a mix of brotherly affection and complete arousal, something personal and secret between them, a look no one else would ever get to see. Sam took pleasure in that, taking the hand Dean held out and getting to his feet. Dean pushed him back onto the bed, the springs squeaking as Sam fell back into the bed they’d fallen into together thousands of times, curling around each other and listening into the dark for their dad to finally come home, smelling like blood and cheap gin. Knowing Dean so intimately already in too many ways to count made Sam all the more eager, all the more wanting to press his body against Dean’s and feel him. It was a force inside him, the want and desire that had been steadily growing inside him since the first time he’d said Dean’s name.

Still in his undershirt and jeans, he was burning up with all the unnecessary layers, dark spots of sweat around his collarbones and under his arms. Dean crawled over him, straddling him, running his hands down Sam’s arms, stopping only to trace some of the swirls, seemingly at random. Sam’s white undershirt was clinging to his body, one of Dean’s old ones to fit the weight he’d lost.

“You’re so fucking beautiful,” Dean got out in a rush, pressing his hand into Sam’s abdomen.

Sam felt a rush at Dean’s words, the familiar glowy feeling of being awarded Dean’s praise coursing through his body. He wriggled under him, pushing his hips up against Dean’s, hoping Dean would get the message.

Dean nodded, biting his lip and looking up and down Sam. He grabbed at the undershirt, and together they wrestled it off, revealing the rest of Sam’s tattoos. They stayed like that for a moment, chests heaving up and down synchronously, Dean’s fingers resting lightly on Sam’s hips.

Sam swallowed as his throat tightened up. He watched Dean with wide, round eyes, the look dreamers get when they’re enraptured in their favorite fantasy. Dean’s body was nothing new to him, and neither was the light he looked at it in, but the freedom of loving Dean was, no longer having to hide his gazes or ache uselessly with a disturbing want. He put a hand on Dean’s hip, lightly and experimentally, before curling his fingers into the flesh and tugging Dean closer.

Dean curled over him, their chests touching skin-to-skin and Sam had never felt safer in his life. His entire body was humming and tingling with warmth and excitement, and he ate up Dean’s kisses right away, making constant, whimpery noises as he tried to press his mouth further into Dean’s.

Like when he’d been on his knees, Dean pulled away from him too soon, licking his lips to clear away the spittle.

“I could taste myself on you,” Dean whispered at Sam’s ear, his breath warm on his neck, and Sam’s head was spurred into lightheadedness and his body was on fire. He bucked his hips up and down uselessly, throwing his head to the side and closing his eyes. Dean took the hint, nibbling up Sam’s chin and jaw and until the feeling jolted electrically down Sam’s body, making his dick spurt a bead of precome.

“Right there, huh?” Dean murmured, looking down at Sam with lowered lids. Sam nodded quickly, and Dean bit down on the sensitive spot near his ear, wetly sucking a bruise into his skin, right above a fading one he’d placed on Sam’s neck a few nights ago, claiming him.

“Please,” Sam whined, curling and uncurling his toes, “Dean, please, I need it, I need you.”

Dean sat up and got off of Sam, moving backward to sit between the vee of his legs. He placed a hand to the underside of Sam’s knee, lightly pushing upward. Sam bent his legs obediently, and Dean reached for Sam’s belt, unhooking it and pulling it out of the belt loops. The buttons and zipper of his jeans were next, and then he was naked, Dean’s eagerness making him tug off Sam’s pants and boxers in one move.

Dean’s eyes roved over him hungrily, and Dean pressed a hand into the softness of Sam’s inner thigh, rubbing up and down the sensitive skin there. He spread his body across Sam’s until they were flush, cocks rubbing against each other, heads pushing closely.

He kissed Sam dirtily, no pretenses to the way his tongue skimmed the roof of his mouth, brushed against Sam’s. He sucked on Sam’s tongue, and Sam could feel Dean’s touch everywhere, sparking arousal in the weirdest of places. It was completely overwhelming how much Dean was doing to him just by being Dean, his thighs shaking and twitching.

Sam heard the drawer of their nightstand open and shut, and then Dean was pulling his tongue back, biting at Sam’s lip before releasing it with a little wet sound. He sat up again, resting on his haunches in between Sam’s bent legs, the bottle of lube being tossed from hand to hand.

“Can I?” he whispered, and Sam’s dick jumped. Not trusting his voice, he watched Dean without blinking, nodding once and opening his legs further.

Dean groaned at that, letting his palm caress Sam’s leg again before falling onto the small curls of hair above his cock. He took Sam in his hand, tugging slowly from the base all the way to the head, pulling so the head of Sam’s dick seemed to bloom as more pearls of precome dripped over the side.

Sam had never ached with the ferocity he did now. He knew he was completely wet, his dick jumping with any movement of Dean’s, his length curling long and pink against his tummy. Dean removed his hand, leaning forward to lick into the slit for the briefest of moments before he was gone again, popping open the bottle of lube and spreading it on his fingers until they were shiny and glistening.

Sam cried out at Dean’s tongue pressing into him, the cry turning into a low hum of satisfaction. “What you did there… I really like,” he breathed, letting his eyes fall shut.

Dean chuckled. “Noted,” he said, and then a cold finger was at Sam’s perineum, slowly making its way to Sam’s hole and tracing little circles around his entrance, agonizingly slowly getting closer.

Sam huffed, wrapping his thighs around Dean and trying to pull him closer. He needed to be full, needed to have Dean inside him with the urgency of police sirens screaming in his head.

“Just do it already!” he barked, his voice high and rough, wobbly with the animalistic need burning down between his legs.

Dean didn’t respond, but pushed a single finger in, pausing to smear a bit more precome around Sam’s hole. Without warning, he pushed the finger in as deep as it could go, cricking it upward and practically scratching at the sensitive nub inside Sam as fucked him with his fingers, moving quickly. Sam keened at the initial burn, but it quickly faded away into a warm, simmering pleasure, causing his hips to jump off the bed with his permission as he wriggled, trying to get any friction he could.

Dean laughed, starting to press a second finger inside of him as he made a loose channel with his fist for Sam to fuck into. Sam jerked his hips into Dean’s hand, sighing at the way the hurt of untouched arousal turned to something good, something that caused the little whines to bubble out of his throat without a filter.

Sam hadn’t even noticed Dean’s second finger was all the way inside him, scissoring him alongside the first until a third finger was added and it was too much, Sam’s hole contracting over and over again over Dean’s hand, trying to pull him further inside.

“O-okay, you gotta, um,” Sam choked, trying to tamp down the tightness curling in his balls, “you have to do it now or I’m gonna come.”

“Shit,” Dean swore, slowly pulling his fingers out, “god, just wanna have you, Sammy.”

“Then do it,” Sam snapped, rubbing a finger over his slit, smearing precome over the head of his cock.

“S’alright, babe,” Dean said easily, blushing at the way the pet name fell out of his mouth. Sam moaned again, insistently, and Dean got the message, crawling over Sam so his arms were bracketed on either side of Sam’s torso.

He took a hand down to his cock to push it against Sam’s entrance, leaning forward as the head pushed in. They both moaned at the same time, and Dean slowly curled further over Sam, pushing in inch by inch until he was flush, balls pressing against Sam’s rim.

They were panting loudly, open-mouthed, adjusting to the feeling. Sam was burning again, but he enjoyed it, enjoyed how Dean took up all the space inside him. His muscles were fluttering around Dean, and he tried to relax, to let Dean in further. Dean moved experimentally, a shallow little thrust, pausing after, giving Sam an unsure look, as if he were afraid he’d split Sam in two.

Sam wrapped his legs around Dean’s waist and pressed him closer to show it was alright, his cock trapped between their stomachs. He did the same with his arms, wrapping them around Dean’s chest and arching his neck forward to kiss him lightly and encourage him.

Dean moved again, fucking in and out of Sam shallowly and quickly, in little staccato bursts. The bed was thumping against the wall in time with Dean’s hips, the creaky springs underneath them adding to the symphony alongside their own breaths.

“More,” Sam begged, his voice a fucking wreck, strung tight with the need flashing throug his body. “D’n, please, more,”

“I gotcha, Sammy,” Dean gasped, curling his arms under Sam’s shoulder to heft him closer, their bodies pressed roughly against each other. He fucked deeper into Sam, and each thrust was pushing further and further until his balls were slapping loudly against the rim of Sam’s hole.

“Oh, what the fuck, that’s hot,” Sam sputtered, his ankles crossed at Dean’s back and squeezing intermittently to keep Dean in him, “I can’t believe we’re fucking doing this, I don’t think anyone’s ever made me feel this good in my life, and-- fuck!” Sam’s ramble turned into a hoarse yell when Dean started moving slower, with one rough movement when he was balls deep before pulling all the way out again and repeating the process, Sam’s body reacting immediately and heating up, the sweat making the ends of his hair wet.

“Stay with me, little brother,” Dean growled, squeezing tightly at the base of Sam’s cock. “I know you’re close, but just a little while longer, ‘kay? Make it last.”

“How did you- _ah_ \- know I was f-f-fucking- _ahh, ah,_ close?” Sam finally managed, proud of himself for being able to string together a coherent sentence.

Dean pushed into him harder, his hips moving faster of their own accord. “‘Cause you started doing that,” Dean bit out, his fingers digging into Sam’s shoulders, “when you get close you go all crazy and you start makin’ noises every time I fuck. S’ kinda cute, the way you lose all your filter.”

Sam couldn't formulate a response to that, simultaneously pleased Dean already knew things about him like this and mindlessly tipping over the edge, his entire body arching up and pushing against Dean’s movements, the constant pulses of pleasure building up until they were almost too much. Dean was right-- his brains were slipping out as his ass and dick took control, needy for stimulation.

Dean swore and let loose, pistoning his hips against Sam’s hole until he was thumping at Sam’s pelvic bone, his balls slapping and the lube making a wet squelch. All the noises were so fucking dirty and messy, but so perfectly them, that Sam couldn’t help but add, moaning like a pornstar with the way Dean was splitting him in half, fucking him so hard he knew he’d be hobbling for a day after this.

A thought struck Sam, and with a fumbling urgency of someone getting closer and closer to the edge he took his arms from Dean’s neck and put them flat on the bed, moving them until they hit Dean’s elbows, Dean’s hands still up and around him, holding him close. He wiggled his hands under them insistently, afraid to trust his voice, and Dean understood him after a moment of losing his tempo in confusion. He slid his hands away from Sam’s skin, slippery from being at the end of a marathon. He took Sam’s hands in his, squeezing them like he meant never to let go and pressing them against the bed, using them as leverage to move harder against Sam, finding his rhythm again.

They came at the same time, Dean sighing and dropping his head onto Sam’s shoulder and Sam whimpering and shaking and trembling, his hole squeezing around Dean. Dean lifted his head, squeezing Sam’s hand once in reassurance before slipping his fingers out of Sam’s and placing them back on the bed, lifting up and slowly pulling out of Sam, come dribbling out of Sam’s fluttering hole.

Sam could feel it, could feel the emptiness and the come and lube leaking out of him, the way he was pushing uselessly against something that was no longer there. He reached down between his legs to feel, surprised at how open he was.

“Sam,” Dean warned, his voice low, “please, I don’t think I can go another round. I didn’t even need to touch you, you like it inside you so much… fuck, are you sure you’re not famous on the internet for this shit?”

Sam laughed, removing his hand and drawing it up to his lips, tasting Dean. Dean made a little broken noise and got up, heading into the bathroom. He came back and cleaned up Sam, wiping him down and scrubbing at the small mess they left on the sheets. After discarding the washcloth, he flopped down next to Sam, nudging Sam by the shoulder until he curled onto his side. Dean slid behind him, curling a leg over Sam’s and reaching down to pull the sheets over them.

Sam yawned slowly, feeling warm and buzzy everywhere, languishing in the feeling of Dean’s arms holding him tight. He turned around in Dean’s arms and placed his hands on Dean’s hips. Dean did the same, and they held each other, nose-to-nose, sighing softly as Sam hooked their ankles together. The blanket had fallen to low at their waists, and Sam wished he could float above his body and take a picture. He knew how perfect they looked, looped together and serene.

Sam closed his eyes, scooting back a little until he was comfortable. Dean’s hand brushed at his ass, moving over the curve of it before drawing back up to his side.

‘You’re already falling asleep, aren’t you,” Dean said into the quiet, nosing at Sam’s neck.

“Hmm.” Sam said, stretching his toes, “took a lot outta me.”

Dean scoffed. “Put a lot in you.”

“Don’t get ahead of yourself,” Sam replied drily, losing more and more consciousness even as he felt Dean’s little chuckle against his skin. He dimly felt a little bad for just passing out after sex, but he knew Dean wouldn’t fault him for it. It was a compliment, after all.

His dreams were warm and safe and featureless, completely devoid of any dark shadows or silver-tongued demons.

**  
**

THE WORDS, PART THIRTEEN (ONE MONTH LATER) .

Sam snuck up behind him, startling him when long arms curled around his waist and a quick peck was placed at his cheek, Sam’s soft hair brushing at his face. He pat Dean’s back once before disentangling himself, hopping over to the hook by the door to grab the leash. “Just going for a quick run, then I’ll be back,” Sam called over his shoulder, slipping on his shoes, “any news from Bobby? He said he’d call.”

“He did,” Dean nodded, flipping over the bacon in the pan and listening to the satisfying hiss, “he called when you were still… passed out.”

Sam blushed at that, unconsciously rubbing at purple spot where his neck met his shoulder.

Dean grinned, a feral sort of protectiveness rising up in him at the display. “And things are good, yeah. The angels don’t fight anymore. Looks like Cas had a little more in him than we gave him credit for.”

“Wow.” Sam gave a low whistle. “And just last week we tried to feed the king of heaven hot dogs.”

Dean sputtered out a laugh at the memory. “His face, man.”

Sam put his cell phone in his pocket, a smile twitching at the corner of his lips. “I’m proud of him, though. I just hope it won’t go wrong.”

Dean set the spatula down and turned to face his brother, leaning against the counter. “It won’t, Sam. The angels have gone back to heaven. Lucifer’s locked away forever. It’s good, Sam… it’s actually good.”

Sam’s smile grew and his eyes softened as he looked back at Dean. “I know.”

A light ringing sound echoed from down the hall, and then nails were clicking along the floor. Sam crouched down, patting the seat of his pants. “Mocha!” he called, “Mocha, walk time!”

An excited dog bark spurred the faster scrabbling of nails, and then a big brown German Shepherd bounded into view, making her way right over to Sam and barking again, smashing her nose against Sam’s face. Sam guffawed, rubbing roughly at the fur around her shoulders and smushing his face to hers. “Aww, yes, that’s my girl!” he exclaimed, standing up and grabbing the leash, attaching it to her collar. “You ready for your walk, missy?”

Mocha barked again, her tail flapping wildly behind her as she followed Sam out the door. “See you!” Sam added hurriedly before the door slammed shut, and Dean shouted it out, loud enough to hear through the screen door.

Dean turned off the stove, piling his food on his plate and sitting at the table, tugging up the blinds so he could watch Sam and Mocha run off into the yard. Her limp was entirely gone, and none of her ribs showed anymore-- Sam had been an absolute angel to her.

Dean could still remember the day he brought her home, the thrill and fear mingling together as he’d brought her to the house in the Impala. He’d seen a car dump her by the side of the road before speeding off, back end fishtailing and tires squealing before it was gone. He was pulling over before he knew what he was doing, making his way over to the still lump with slow, practiced steps.

She’d whined and looked up at him with puppydog eyes almost as strong as Sam’s and Dean knew he was done for. If Sam had been with him, there’d be no way they’d leave without her. He could hear the worry in disappointment in Sam’s voice if Dean just left her here to suffer.

So, he packed her up with a blanket and took her home, pressing her into Sam’s arms without a word.

Sam and Mocha had taken to each other immediately, like they saw similar pain in each other’s eyes. When they first got her, she refused to leave Sam’s side and would only take food and water from him. The vet was a disaster, but Sam’s soothing voice eventually calmed her down. It was no question after that that they had to keep her. Sam had offered up the name Mocha immediately, petting her flank and thinking back to the kid in the supermarket who had believed in him. Dean couldn’t think of a single thing more fitting.

Only a few weeks later and she looked healthy, coming out of her shell. Their first successful walk had been yesterday, and it seemed like the final thing to make her forget the hell she’d been through. Dean couldn’t help but love the dog. She was sweet and gentle and she reminded him painfully of Sam. He felt a little surprised that they hadn’t had her longer-- she seemed to fit right in with the Winchesters, as if they’d been waiting for her all along to join their home.

And it was their home now. Bobby had found Rufus again and had a group of hunters they managed in the Midwest, helped by some kid named Garth. During Bobby’s first visit, he had taken one look at them and told them the house was theirs for as long as they wanted it, as long as Dean kept up the salvage business. Dean could see something in Bobby’s eyes, a kind of knowing, but he didn’t know how far it went, didn’t know exactly what Bobby knew about them. Dean wondered if they were somehow obvious, like they were wearing some piece of each other on their skin. Bobby never commented on it, and for that, Dean was grateful.

It felt kind of backward-- having Bobby out and doing the dirty work, hunting and picking off demons, while Sam and Dean stayed at home, him managing the salvage business while Sam volunteered a few days a week at the library. He still couldn’t quite feel safe around people, getting nervous with splitting headaches, but Dean didn’t expect him to work nine-to-five. It was okay. He kept trying to remind Sam of that. Sam seemed to lose sight of his accomplishments often, but with a few touches from Dean, he seemed to set back into himself, more sure in his own skin.

After finishing up his dinner, he put the dishes in the sink and went out to sit on the porch with a beer. He sat on the steps watching Sam play with Mocha, tossing her sticks and letting her tackle him into the dirt, his laughter echoing strongly around as he pet her, moving his face as she sniffed at him, closing his eyes as she licked eagerly at him.

Dean took a long pull of his drink, sighing. The world was a deep blue around him, and the further away from the summer they got, the colder it got at night. He pulled his jacket tighter around himself, watching the last few straggling fireflies lazily light up across the yard. The sun had just finished setting, a pale pink scar of clouds marking the spot in the sky where it had been. Crickets and cicadas were playing their night song, making Dean’s world feel smaller, more immediate.

Mocha rolled in the dirt, her belly to the sky as Sam hunched over her and rubbed, making her tail thump against the dirt erratically, as if it had a mind of its own. Her mouth was open in a silly grin, which Sam was mirroring, sending a quick look Dean’s way with a little wave. Dean waved slowly back and Sam scooted away from Mocha, scrambling upward and running away, laughing when she barked and gave chase.

Dean leaned back and looked at his life. He looked at his brother, his love, the last piece keeping him whole. He looked at their home around them, quiet and settled, with the rusted carcasses of cars looming high in towers around them, a metal army holding the world back. He could imagine the house behind him, the trim freshly repainted blue, the gutters fixed, Bobby’s books all untouched and gathering dust in an act of reverence. He thought of the quiet halls, with demon traps under rugs that hadn’t been used in ages, fading away with time. Dean thought he ought to repaint some, just in case.

He looked more closely at Sam, scrutinizing him as he folded over Mocha to scratch at her ear. He still hadn’t noticed how one of the sigils on his arm had begun to burn away. Dean would have to apply more holy water tonight, maybe use a marker to fill in any lines that had faded away. Bobby’s latest call hadn’t come with any new biblical omens, only demons his team had managed to take down, which was good. Sam’s issues weren’t urgent. He was still here, still breathing, and blissfully happy, like Dean had never had before. It was something he was unwilling to give up. Seeing Sam like this was better than heaven, and being able to hold him and be inside him and have Sam hold him right back was even more so.

This was what Sam wanted, so it was what Dean wanted. And they had it.

If it meant Dean had to clean up a few of Sam’s bodies every now and then, then that was a price Dean was more than willing to pay for Sam’s sanity, for his elated ignorance and his happiness, for their love.

He had it under control.

FIN

 

**Author's Note:**

> I would really appreciate any and all feedback on this piece-- I've never tried anything like this before, and it definitely took sweat and blood. Anything is appreciated-- even just letting me know you read it. Thank you so much.


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